She is back on the dirt path in the twilight, beneath the cold uncertain stars. Back leading the lost people through the shadows. Yet the people are hollow, and the shadows have faces, and there is nowhere for her to go. No sign of hope. Just the narrowing path and her own fear.
Save us, Luthan …
She turns, and her heart thuds harder. Four figures have arranged themselves across the path behind her, the foremost of her followers. Their faces are blank, their eyes empty, yet she recognises three of them. Alyssia. Oriana. Fabithe.
Save us!
They reach out for her, clutching at her clothing. She tries to break free, but the ground beneath her feet has turned to quicksand, dragging at her boots. She shouts to the others to go back, go back, but her voice makes no sound –
“Luthan.” A hand on her shoulder pulls her back to the world. She’s in bed, beneath the covers, shivering and sweating as though she has a fever. Isidor is crouched beside her. “Another sending?”
She nods. “They are changing. I – they were there, Father. All of them. But I couldn’t see Toralé’s face.”
Isidor shows no surprise. Instead, he stands up and says softly, “Come with me. We have matters to discuss.”
By the quality of the light, it is barely dawn. Yet the makeshift beds on the central floor of the house, which the two of them have been using since their guests arrived, hold no further attraction; not when Luthan’s fear is still clammy on her skin. She follows Isidor down the stairs, stepping quietly so as not to wake Oriana and Alyssia on the floor above. Sometimes Fabithe sleeps on the ground floor, but there’s no sign of him now.
The cold air outside hits her with almost physical force. She wraps her arms around herself and follows Isidor down to the lake shore. By now, the sky is pink and gold. Red before noon, rain follows soon. The brief few days of winter sunshine are almost over.
For a time, they stand together, gazing out over the water. Isidor is as still and silent as a rock; Luthan tries not to fidget. Then Isidor asks, as though it is a natural extension of their silence, “Do you recall anything from the making?”
“Not much. There is something I have to do, something important, and I – I can’t – ”
“It will return to you in time. It is too much to bear, at first.”
He has already warned her of what to expect: how her mind will seek to protect itself from the knowledge of her own destiny by blocking it out, letting it come back gradually. How even if she accepts it, she will forever walk on a knife-edge, striving not to lose herself. For now, she recalls only unsatisfying snatches, hints at a significance she doesn’t fully understand.
“In the meantime, I have something for you.” Isidor hands her a cloth-wrapped bundle. “It has been passed down through the generations, but rarely used. You will be the third.”
Luthan unties the twine keeping the wrappings in place. “A stave?”
It is a smooth, straight section of oak the length of her forearm. The wood is very dark, very old; it shines with a patina of ancient blood. A deep groove runs along it, with a single rounded spike like a thorn or a claw curving over one end, but other than that it is unadorned.
“Where are the runes of power and protection?” she asks.
“It needs none. It was made by Meré, founder of Castellany – and you know how much she achieved with her power.”
“Yes.” Luthan turns the stave over in her hands. “Who was its other owner?”
“Tarmora Iotela.”
“Who brought an end to the Ruby Wars.” That seems right; it resonates with her hidden memories. “And now you have given it to me …”
“You should disguise it, perhaps as a walking staff,” Isidor says. “It is an important tool, Luthan. It will enhance your power, conserve your blood. Never lose it.”
“I won’t.” Jaw set, she draws her thumb swiftly across the sharp end of the stave, letting a single drop of blood fall into the channel. The power comes more easily to her than it did to start with. She smiles, and tucks the wooden pipes she’s now holding into her belt.
“Pipes?” Isidor asks.
“Why not? I can play, a little.” She hesitates, before asking the question that has been turning over and over in her mind since yesterday. “Father … why do you want me to help Alyssia?”
“Because three corresponding connections are too many to be coincidence.”
“I – I don’t understand.”
“We know that until recently, she saw only four people: you, Oriana, Fabithe and the prisoner, Toralé. We know that Ifor Darklight has sought to hurt or control both Oriana and Toralé, and likely Fabithe too. And we know that Alyssia, Oriana, Fabithe and Toralé have identical scars. I do not consider it overreaching to surmise that those three facts are connected.”
“Then why the differences? I don’t have a scar. And Ifor has never sought me out, or Alyssia for that matter …” Luthan thinks about that, then adds, “I suppose he couldn’t find Alyssia, since she comes from somewhere else. But what about me?”
“I have done my best to protect you,” Isidor says heavily. “With anonymity. With magic. With the safety of isolation. Perhaps he looked, but could not find you. If that is the case, Luthan, you will have to be very cautious when you go out into the world.”
“Yet you still think we should try to enter the Retreat? Even though Fabithe said it isn’t possible to – ”
“Fabithe has travelled a great deal for a boy of his age,” Isidor says. “But I daresay he has not read as many books as I have. There is another way in.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Retreat was primarily used as a place of peace and solitude, but it had other purposes. Assignations, conspiracies, covert political meetings. There had to be an entrance for people who were there unofficially. And although that back route fell into disuse sometime around the end of the Third Age, it must yet exist.”
“That was hundreds of years ago,” Luthan protests. “How can I – ”
“You are a mage. You can do anything.”
“Within the constraints of my vows,” she mutters, and Isidor inclines his head.
“Always.”
Who am I?
I am a mage. I can do anything.
I am …
Stop it. Search for clues. But there are none. I’ve seen this room before, but through many pairs of eyes. There is no anchor to pin me to a single identity, and I can’t –
I grab my hair, pull a strand of it in front of my face. Short. Dark. The fingers clutching it are pale. Alyssia Gale. I’m Alyssia Gale.
I stretch my legs, arch my back, re-inhabiting my own body. Yet somewhere inside me, a shiver has taken hold. I thought this was getting easier, but that was hard. She must have pulled me in while I was sleeping, her nightmare becoming my own. And waking up from a dream inside a vision is a new level of complicated, even for me.
Downstairs, I fetch fresh water from the spring, then reawaken the banked fire and hang the kettle over it to boil. By the time Isidor and Luthan return from the lake shore, I’ve brewed them mugs of the herbal tea they call kalefar, which to me tastes like damp leaves but which both of them seem to subsist on. Luthan takes hers with mumbled thanks, before disappearing up the steps to the middle floor. Face set in solemn lines, Isidor watches her go.
“I have made a hard life for her,” he says. “I put knowledge ahead of home and family, and I passed that decision on to Luthan without ever telling her about the alternative. We could have had the power of our bloodline, but I chose the power in my blood. And so when she set the knife to her own throat, she closed a door she could not even see.”
Surprised that he would refer to it so openly, even if it’s only to me, I turn to look at him. He returns the gaze without speaking. Very aware that it’s my last chance to ask questions, I launch straight into one.
“Isidor … what do you think they mean, the connections between the five of us?”
He raises his eyebrows, as imperturbable as ever. “You saw that conversation?”
“Yes.”
“Then as far as Toralé is concerned, you already know – ”
“That Luthan can find the way into the Retreat? Yes.”
He shakes his head, the hint of a smile on his face. “A hard habit to get into, controlling every thought and word in case of an unseen listener. But as to your question … I have speculation, only. Nothing that it would be wise to share without confirmation.”
“But – ”
“Time will tell, Alyssia.” Mug of kalefar cradled in both hands, he turns away, and I get the message: he’s either unwilling or unable to answer. “For now, we had better get to work. There is plenty to be done if you are to leave straight after breakfast.”
Ifor cannot stop thinking about what he saw in the mirror yesterday. It should make no difference. As soon as he closed the channel, he opened up another and gave Tarrith his orders. In a week, once he has achieved what he needs to here, he will travel to the Retreat and watch Toralé die. Yet still, it circles through his mind. And it is not the Mage to whom he returns most often, even though that would be logical, given their history. Nor is it the Seer, whose arrival is a mystery that remains to be solved. No: what he keeps thinking about is his wife. The Dark Knife. Together.
Now Cinemand has called him to his study, probably for no greater reason than that the old man is scared and worried and wants company, and Ifor is glad of it. He has not spoken to Cinemand since he saw what he saw. This is the perfect opportunity to tell the right story. And perhaps, in the past, he would not have done it – because it is a story that makes himself out to be the kind of man he swore he would never be again, the kind of man who is cheated and betrayed. Yet he has come to realise, over the years, that a tactical advantage trumps everything. Even the need to maintain one’s reputation.
He taps on the door to the study, then waits for Cinemand’s permission before entering. Once he found these things exasperating: the slow rituals of etiquette, please and thank you and may your story continue, when all the while his muscles were clenched and humming with the need for war. Destruction. Revenge. Yet this time round, he almost enjoys the superficiality of everyday interaction. It gives him space to think and plan, to observe and analyse, to find the parallels that hold the key to victory. It gives him time to get it right.
“You summoned me?” he asks, with the kind of subdued smile suitable for a man who has something difficult on his mind.
“Come in, my boy.” Cinemand is standing by his desk, gazing out of the window. Deeper into the room, two armchairs sit by the fireplace; the other walls are lined with books, and the air smells faintly of paper and ink. A pleasant room, this. Ifor intends to commandeer it for his own use, when he is Highest Lord. “You have a message from home.”
He holds out a sheet of snowy white paper, folded and sealed with black wax. Temporarily diverted from his purpose, Ifor takes it. No greater reason than that the old man is scared and worried and wants company; quite so. Messages are usually distributed by the servants, not delivered by the Highest Lord himself.
As Ifor walks over to the fire, he breaks the seal and scans the single page. A letter from his father: news of the family, a complaint about heavy snow blocking trade routes. Little on governance – that is kept for Dakion, as the eldest – but a good deal of advice on married life; Ifor has not sent word north of Oriana’s flight, and he intends to keep it that way. The whole is nothing of any import, compared to the tension that has gripped his entire body ever since he saw what he saw in the mirror, but he makes himself absorb the words nonetheless. Then he lowers the paper and meets Cinemand’s expectant gaze.
“My father sends his regards, and much regret that his continued ill health does not allow him to travel.”
“And your mother? Is she well?” The old man’s voice holds an irritatingly lachrymose note of sympathy. Ifor suppresses a sigh.
“As well as can be expected.”
“Such a beautiful woman.” Joining him by the fire, Cinemand offers a misty smile. He is going to reminisce; Ifor recognises the signs. “You always took after her, my boy. So very fair, where the rest of your family were dark. And so very … she was always so charming. Such a shame …”
“Yes.” Ifor says no more than that, but even a man as foolish and self-centred as Cinemand is occasionally capable of identifying nuance. He pats Ifor’s shoulder.
“Well, well, I daresay you do not wish to dwell on it … your brother and sister, then. How are they?”
Still that nauseating sympathy. And besides, it is a poor change of subject – because everyone knows that Ifor’s younger sister Ariamé, like their mother, is unstable and kept in seclusion. It is inevitable that Cinemand takes an interest in her, because she was born on the very same day as Oriana, both of them here in the Citadel during a state visit. Yet Ifor has no more desire to talk about her than he does about his mother. There was a time when he made almost a pet of Ariamé; seven years younger than him, she followed him everywhere and regarded him with an unshakable admiration he found amusing. But that was before she changed. The Ariamé he knows now is not the Ariamé he knew then. And as for his older brother Dakion … Ifor has nothing to say about him. One of these days, he is going to have to come up with a solution to the problem of Dakion.
“They are fine,” he answers Cinemand’s question. Then, before the old man can start asking after his distant cousins, “But I have some other news, bride-father, and I am afraid it is not good.”
“Oriana?” Like a visibly withering leaf, the old man folds into one of the armchairs. “She is not – ”
“She is alive,” Ifor says. “But she was not kidnapped. She ran.”
“Ran? What do you mean?”
What do you think I mean? “She has betrayed me. She has run away with another man. And you must know the implications this will have for the treaty. For the bonds of support and friendship between my people and yours.”
“Are you sure?” Cinemand quavers. “Are you sure it was not a kidnapping, as we originally believed? The idea that she could have run away – ”
Ifor rounds on him. “I have a witness who saw it with his own eyes! Saw her with him! Do you doubt me?”
“No. No. I only – ”
“If this is a kidnapping, then show me a ransom note. Show me the signs of a forced entry to the Citadel. Show me anything but a woman who has betrayed husband and home, because I cannot see it!”
Cinemand shakes his head mutely. The disquiet in his face recalls Ifor to his senses. He is letting his anger show. The old man has no idea how cold and implacable the desire for justice has set in his blood, and it needs to remain that way.
“I am sorry,” he says, dropping into the second chair. His shoulders slump. One hand covers his eyes. “Forgive me. I am just …” Tired. Tired of this endless repetition, this wheel that keeps grinding him into the dust. Tired of gaining the upper hand, only to have it slip away. “Heartbroken. That she could have done this to me. To you.”
Did I not punish them enough? he adds silently. The Warrior. The Healer. After everything I did to them, this time round, I thought they would stay broken. And yet there he is, risen from a traitor’s grave, and she will fall in love with him as she always does, and they will look at me and laugh …
He might even be able to forgive them, for the last time and the one before that and the one before that, were it not for the laughter.
“I understand,” Cinemand says, with inadvertent mendacity. “But I beg you, my son, for the sake of the love I bear you and your family … do not break the treaty.”
Ifor has no intention of breaking the treaty. He wants the Sapphire. More to the point, he wants Oriana. Even more, now that she has slipped through his fingers. He wants her back so he can finish what he started. Nevertheless, he lets the silence hang heavy for a long moment before he raises his head to meet the old man’s gaze.
“Let it stand, for now,” he says softly. “I love her, bride-father. I would forgive her, in an instant, if only I could have her back.”
Love. It is a concept that belongs to the fleeting lives of others, hot and swift and all-consuming precisely because it must one day die. Lovers like to believe their feelings transcend mortality: a great undying passion, strong enough to outlast time itself. But the truth is, compared to the fires of eternity, human emotion is no more than the flicker of a candle. At its heart, love carries within it the bittersweet seed of loss; that is what makes it taste so good.
Does he love Oriana? Perhaps. He loves her no less than he hates her, anyway. But he has found over the years that neither love nor hatred lasts nearly as long as the cold, deathless grip of a grudge.
“Goddess bless you.” Cinemand’s hand grips his shoulder. “I am sorry, my boy. For what my daughter has done.”
Goddess. Ifor can barely keep the sneer from his lips at the word. The whole speech, amusing and yet infuriating in its ignorance. Humanity loves to create its divinities, its figures of awe and wonder to be worshipped … and, of course, its powers of evil to set against them. Man’s impulse towards religion has a lot to answer for.
“I am sorry for it, too,” he says. Then, with an honesty he does not want to examine too closely, “And yet, I cannot regret the day I met her.”
Cinemand sighs. “I still do not understand why she would throw everything away.”
“Nor I,” Ifor agrees. “In fact, if it were not so foolish – but no. I should not even think such a thing.”
He slants a glance up and sideways; the old man rises to his bait. “What? What is it?”
“It is simply that you are right. Despite all the evidence, it is hard to believe that she would have run away of her own accord. She was happy. We had just been married, and she had not seemed at all unwilling during the private part of the ceremony …” He produces a reminiscent smile, then allows it to become abashed beneath Cinemand’s gaze. “Perhaps it is the natural reluctance of a man to believe he could have been so deceived, but I did wonder …”
“Yes?”
“What if – what if there were unnatural forces at work?”
“You mean …”
Ifor nods, lowering his voice to a murmur. “Blood magic.”
A complex expression creeps onto Cinemand’s face: the expression of a man confronted by a childhood fear, afraid despite knowing he should not be.
“But surely,” he says, “that is just – I mean, that kind of thing does not happen any more. Does it?”
Southerners. In every Holy Chamber in the land, their priests warn them of the evils of blood magic. There is even a branch of the priesthood dedicated to seeking out magic and destroying it. And yet most people do not believe. Not really. For them, blood magic is like the gods: it belongs in stories. This despite the fact that Cinemand lives in a castle built by magic that gains all its power from a tool forged with blood. As far as the old man is concerned, the past never happened.
Of course, that is all Meré’s fault. She was the one who wanted to give ordinary people the power of blood without its cruelties. And in so doing, she started the slow descent of her own kind into ignominy – because once the world no longer needed mages, it was free to hate them.
“I would not be so sure,” Ifor says. “I have seen strange things, in the north. Things that could not be explained any other way.”
Cinemand pats his hand. “Oh, well, the north. Your countrymen are superstitious creatures. But surely here – ”
“I have seen,” Ifor goes on inexorably, hiding his irritation at the old man’s patronising air, “a man walk through a blazing fire without setting so much as a single hair aflame.”
“Really? How terrifying. I assume you put him to death.”
“Of course.” Which is a lie. Ifor has no desire to kill anyone who does not deserve it. Odd, how the priests and the Pendhaki have built their entire concept of morality around the persecution and murder of mages. They would argue that magic itself is built on murder, and therefore putting a mage to death is preventing the loss of further lives – but that argument is based on a fundamental misunderstanding of magic. Again, Meré’s fault. She and the other great mages of the Third Age were adherents of the Onepower, using only their own blood, and with that came a stubborn refusal to see any other possibility. They viewed the Otherpower – magic drawing on the blood of others – as a cruel and brutal practice requiring human sacrifice, and that characterisation has endured until, today, it is all anyone thinks of magic. Yet using the power contained in another man’s blood does not have to involve killing him. Ifor’s work in the Castle Retreat has shown that beyond doubt. The entire purpose of the mordathi is to prove that blood magic can be powerful without the need for death.
Admittedly, some of the prisoners are being used without their consent, but they are criminals: murderers, enemies of Northfell, people who have been accused of magic. If not for his intervention, they would have been executed. And once more of them agree to undergo the linking process, even their imprisonment will no longer be necessary.
“The point is,” he tells Cinemand, “we cannot be sure there was no magic at work. And until we know the truth, I will not condemn your daughter for her apparent treachery. No matter how it hurts.”
Conflicting emotions flicker across Cinemand’s face. A rational man’s lingering disbelief in what he had previously dismissed as a children’s fable. A deeper, more primal fear that it is true. And, on top of that, the desire to find an explanation for Oriana’s flight that will absolve her of any wrongdoing – even if it means accepting the continued existence of magic.
Good. People are much easier to sway if you can get them to think with their gut instead of their head. Plant the suspicion in Cinemand’s gut now that magic is real and present and responsible for his daughter’s disappearance, and Ifor will be able to turn it to his own advantage, when the time comes. And, of course, it also gives him a reason not to break the treaty. Because he does not want to break the treaty. Because he wants Oriana back.
“I will be crossing the border today,” he says. “Into Emerald territory. I have been informed that Oriana’s … friend … came here from Easterwood. I hope to find out more about him.”
About her, he corrects himself silently. The Seer. I have to know how she got here. Maybe then I will be able to work out how to send her away again.
I’m shivering. I hate being inside his head. And the way he turned his thoughts to me, just before it ended … it was almost as if I was shocked back into my own body. Like playing hide and seek: the endless silent waiting in the dark until, all at once, you’re exposed to the light. Blinking. Pulse racing. Work out how to send her away. He wants to get rid of me.
“Are you all right?” Oriana asks softly beside me. We’ve stopped halfway up the hill; a quick glance around shows Fabithe ahead of us, Luthan behind. “Is it Toralé?”
I nod, though I feel guilty doing it. I want to confide in her, but what would I say? Your father is convinced that you’re either a faithless betrayer who ran away with another man on her own wedding night, or in thrall to the Evil Powers of Magic. I don’t see that it would help her to know that. And besides, walking around Othitali obviously didn’t prepare her for a real journey. Her eyelids are creased, and her limp has become more pronounced over the course of the morning. Though the stubborn set to her mouth tells me beyond doubt that she won’t accept any kind of help, I can see she’s in pain. And I don’t want to add to it.
If I’m honest, it isn’t as if I’m totally comfortable myself. We’ve been walking for less than half a day, and I’m already remembering wistfully what it was like to travel across Castellany on horseback. Yes, it was bumpy and uncomfortable and made all kinds of interesting new muscles ache, but at least we could see where we were going. And it was faster, and we didn’t have to slog through thick, clinging mud – and I don’t even want to consider the way my boots are lacerating my feet. I’m sure by now my skin must be more blister than otherwise.
“You people need to invent cars,” I mutter, pushing the hair out of my eyes for the hundredth time today. Too long to be practical, too short to braid like Oriana does – and if I’d considered how annoying it would be once I was on the move, I’d have asked Isidor to magically remove it all.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing.” I smile at her. “So what’s up there, exactly?”
I’ve been able to see this hill since we left Oakelm. Although it isn’t large, it rises higher than the plains around it – almost artificial, like a mound or a barrow. And even at a distance, I could make out the stones on the top. I just couldn’t tell if they were a natural formation or put there by design.
“Spirits’ Rise,” Oriana says. “I have never been here before, because it is not Sapphire territory, but I know it is a sacred place.”
“Why?”
“We will show you.”
Luthan catches up with us shortly after that, and we reach the summit together. Fabithe isn’t anywhere to be seen; only five great grey stones, arranged with one in the centre and four surrounding it. The cardinal points of a compass, plus the pivot for the needle. Each of the four stones around the edge leans inward slightly, as though some vast force is pulling them together; the stone in the middle stands tall and upright. All five are carved with patterns and symbols and what looks like writing, but I can’t make any of it out.
“What does it mean?” I ask.
“It’s a memorial,” Luthan says. “This is where the Five made their final stand.”
I place my scarred left palm against the nearest stone, feeling the chill seep into my bones. “What happened to them?”
“They gave their lives to save us from evil.” It’s Oriana who replies this time, standing beside the stone at the eastern point of the circle, her gaze fixed on its carved surface. “Four of them died here on the hilltop, sacrificing themselves to defeat the dark magic that threatened to overrun the land. The fifth, Qaemantono – embodiment of the One’s own power of creation – could not be destroyed. And so she stayed among us long enough to create the elemental jewels, ready for Meré to discover. A way to make wonderful things happen without shedding blood. Then she walked out across the sea and was never seen again.”
Even at a distance, I can feel Luthan’s desire to argue radiating from her like heat. And certainly, that version of events doesn’t match the story she told me back on Othitali, about how Meré forged the elemental jewels with blood. Yet Oriana glances over her shoulder at me, face bright with discovery, and I can’t quite bring myself to question her.
“This is my family’s goddess-stone,” she says. “It tells of Atchika and her many healing gifts. The power of Water flowed through her veins; that same power is captured in the Sapphire, and is the inheritance of my family line.” A shadow dims her expression, like a cloud crossing the sun. She turns back to the stone, brushing it very gently with her fingertips, and adds, “I am glad to have seen it.”
All right. So the stone representing Atchika the water-goddess is to the east, the direction of the Citadel. South is the Oaken Keep, home of the Emerald; that must be Earth. And west is the Glass Tower, the Diamond and Air. Surely just like the map I saw in Isidor’s house, the existence of a fourth stone to the north confirms what Luthan said about there being a fourth jewel: the Ruby. Four elements, four jewels, four gods, plus the divine spark of creation to bring them together. And if Luthan is right about that, perhaps she’s also more likely to be right about how the jewels were made …
We’re about to leave when Fabithe reappears from the far side of the hill, seeming to pay no attention at all to the massive stones around him.
“Flooding’s worsened since I last came this way,” he says. “That’s going to add an extra half-day to our journey.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Will we still get there in time?”
“Should do. Ifor’s arriving a week today. One and a half days to Bridgehold – make that a full two, now – three days to the border. Another two days to the Retreat. That still leaves us a day before he’s due.”
We already talked about the route we’d take, before we left Othitali. It isn’t the shortest way to the Duskmire, but it gives us a chance to stop for supplies without having to re-enter Sapphire territory; the town of Bridgehold is affiliated with the Diamond. Still, I was ready to panic until he reminded me that an Endaranian week is eight days, not seven. All the same, we’ll be cutting it fine.
“Better get going,” Fabithe says, as if in agreement. He still hasn’t so much as glanced at the stones of Spirits’ Rise. Obediently, we gather ourselves together and start down the hill. Yet when I look back, I see him lingering behind. And he touches one of the stones, very quickly, before descending in our wake.