HIGH ON THE SUMMER POLES, wind curled round the flags of Cormaris, Lord of Wisdom, lifting them lightward. Rays of sun glinted off the gold in embroidered beams of the light that signified knowledge, sparkling as if on water. Multihued ribbons were entwined down the length of the poles, and later in the afternoon the young men and women of the King’s City would choose their colors and begin their dances. Ironic, really, that this dance occurred under the watchful eyes of the Lord of Wisdom, for the young women and men in their light, summer colors were often anything but.
Wine, provided by the King’s cellars, flowed perhaps a little too freely, and ale more freely still, but the Breodani had a knack for handling their drink, and they’d do nothing to embarrass themselves here, at the edge of the King’s Forest.
It was the eighth of Lattan, the longest day of the year; it was always celebrated thus. Farther down the hill, toward the clear, cold waters of Lake Camrys, the Priestesses of the Mother were weaving willow wreaths; the unsuspecting were crowned with them to the amusement of their elders.
The Hunter’s green was the only area that seemed almost unoccupied by comparison, but the Hunter’s Priests and the Hunter Lords took no slight from it. It was the summer solstice, after all, and the time for death and mourning had passed with the chill of early spring and the land’s renewal. Although the Lords did not join in many of the festivities, their Ladies did, adding color, grace, and a cunning wit to the proceedings.
First among these was the Queen of Breodanir; she held her court at the center of the fair, and everyone, from the greatest of the Ladies to the least of the children, made their way there to bend knee and bow head at her feet. Yet for all that, it was not a somber or stately affair. There was a genuine joy in the air that no formality could stifle.
Into this day, she came.
She was tall, slender, pale; her hair, dark and straight, fell down her shoulders past the spill of her midnight-blue hood. Where the celebrants gathered to glory in light and summer, she was ice and night; obviously not one of the Breodani.
Evayne a’Nolan, in the cover of shade made stronger by a touch of violet mage-light, watched and listened to the gathering throngs. There were games being played that had lost all of the significance that once made them ritual; there were songs being sung that had lost all magic; there were prayers being whispered that had lost all power to invoke. Yet for all that, they were imbued with life, with an enjoyment of the moment, that they had not possessed at their beginning.
She knew what this celebration had once been, and what it no longer was: High Summer’s Day, when the hidden paths of the First-born briefly touched the world of man. Twelve years of study had given her knowledge that had been lost to all but the most dedicated of the Order of Knowledge. Birth gave her the ability to use it.
And she knew, the moment that she appeared beneath the ancient trees, that that knowledge had been gleaned and gained for a reason. It was High Summer’s Day, and she was to invoke the power of it. Why, she did not yet know.
When am I? She knew it was the eighth of Lattan, but did not know which year. Very slowly, with care to avoid the scattered rays of sunlight through the leaves, she reached into the hanging folds of her robes. The robes had been a gift from her father, and they sheltered many things, but none more precious than this: the soul-crystal; the seer’s ball.
At faires and carnivals throughout the empire of Essalieyan, men and women who claimed mystical insights carried crystal balls. With light and smoke and mirrors, they huddled in darkened tents and wagons, mumbling cryptic nonsense and touching the edge of their customers’ beliefs. The intellects among the Order knew that crystal balls were balderdash and children’s nonsense.
But the wise knew that some children’s rhymes held hidden and deeper meanings than the adult world could remember.
Evayne knew it well. She held in her hands the proof of that. When am I? She thought again and looked into the ball itself. It was smooth and hard as glass, but the light that struck it was absorbed, not reflected. And where?
Mists caught the sun’s rays and turned silver as they rolled in on themselves. She looked into them, waiting for the visions to come. Resolving themselves out of formless clouds, they obeyed her silent supplication.
At first, all she saw was the faire itself, but it was closer and clearer than her cautious distance otherwise allowed. She studied the faces that drifted quickly by, searching for one woman, or one man, whom she might know. There were none—not directly.
But there were the Hunter Lords and their huntbrothers, and she recognized their green uniforms, although she did not know what the gold, gray, and brown embroidery signified. She knew she was in Breodanir, and as her vision scanned further, and she saw the Queen’s pavilion, she knew that she was near the Sacred Wood, the King’s Forest.
Her heart quickened; her teeth bit her lower lip. She scanned the crowd more intently, half-hoping. But no; minutes passed, and there was no sign of him. Stephen of Elseth was not here.
You aren’t a girl anymore, she chided herself bitterly, you’re twenty-eight; you’ve work to do. Get to it. But she looked a little longer. It had been years since she’d last seen Stephen, but she did not forget.
When?
But this time, at this place, she knew where to look. The mists rolled, resolving themselves into pale gray ghostly images. There. Stephen of Elseth was with Gilliam. They were hunting in the woods of the southern Elseth demesne. The corners of her lips turned up as she watched them. The ball gave them no voices, but it was clear that they were arguing.
She thought that they might be fourteen or fifteen; it was hard to tell. Certainly, they were not the men that she had met years ago, but there were traces of those men in the lines of their jaws, the width of their shoulders, their height. She lingered over the vision a little longer and then let it fade. It was costly to maintain it, and she still did not know what her purpose in this time was.
The mists shifted; she felt her hands tingle in a rush of dangerous warmth. She was no longer in control of the crystal. It caught her attention and held it fast, whether she willed it or no. White light sparked like lightning across the clouds; the silver mists folded and then folded again, moving at an unfelt gale.
Then, suddenly, they flew apart like curtains pulled too quickly. At the heart of the ball, creeping through the undergrowth, was a shadowy figure. Evayne watched in silence as the figure rose and became clearer. It was a young woman with dark, wild hair. She was perhaps five feet in height, with a round face and pointed chin. Her lips were thinned over teeth that seemed a little canine, and her eyes were so dark a brown they appeared black. Her hair was a black, burr-infested tangle, and her skin was darkened by sun and dirt. She wore no clothing.
She had seen this girl before, as wild and unkempt, but almost never alone. There was something strange about her, something that Evayne couldn’t quite place—until she realized that, in fact, she had seen exactly this girl; there was no change between the then and the now.
It can’t be time yet, she thought. In the now, Gilliam of Elseth is too young. But the ball never lied, although it was never completely clear, and she knew her task was urgent by the color and immediacy of the vision itself. She had to do something for or about the wild girl whose name she had never thought to ask. But what? The mists began to creep in; the girl was slowly obscured.
She almost set the ball aside, for there were dangers associated with its use, but some instinct held her back for a few seconds longer. Because of this, she was prepared for the second vision—and the second vision explained the first too clearly.
In the shadows of the forest, cloaked in a seeming that shimmered when seen through the soul-crystal, was a tall, lean figure. It ran, catlike, on all fours, and then paused to stand and test the air with a flick of a sliver-thin tongue. Its eyes were obsidian, its teeth long and sharp where opened lips revealed them.
Demon-kin. Her fingers whitened as they clenched the crystal sphere. Not all of her journeys through the otherwhen were dangerous; this had just become so. Although she had studied enough to discipline her magery, her mastery of it was uneasy—it would be years before she had the power necessary not to feel so threatened.
The image began to slide away, and she concentrated on the fading details. Tracker. She had not yet encountered one, but knew them to be deadly—even the least of the kin posed a threat to the unwary, and the trackers were by no means the least.
Where?
The ball’s light flickered; what had been warm against skin was now cool, calm blue. Her face went blank as she stared; her eyelids slowly closed. The answer to her question was not given in pictures or words, but rather in feel. She knew where she must go, although she couldn’t have given a simple direction other than the word “follow,” had there been others to speak with.
Before the last of the sense-light faded, the ball vanished into the folds of her sleeves. She murmured a word, and the sleeves retracted toward her body.
Evayne a’Nolan, seer, mage, and historian, began to run.
• • •
The leaves that grew closest to the sunlight were thick and plentiful enough to make the forest a place of shadows, which suited Ellekar perfectly. Hunting in shadow was his specialty, his existence. No matter that the scents were strong and oversweet in these mortal woods; the scent of his prey was unmistakable and singular. She was a light thing, with clumsy feet, but she was faster than most humans her size.
He had to be careful, cunning. Less than a mile away the humans who styled themselves the Breodani were playing the games of High Summer. Against High Summer, only the rites of Winter held sway. Shadows meant nothing, and shadow-magic was at a nadir that made it virtually powerless.
None of the demon-kin would willingly allow themselves to be without power, but today Ellekar’s power was weak indeed, and his ability to track was lessened. He had to rely on things physical not things magical, and he cursed High Summer as he hunted, for this was not a pleasure hunt, and the consequences of its failure would be extreme. He twisted around the trunk of a tree, head snapping at air as he ran.
The girl must not be allowed to leave the forest.
• • •
There are demons in Breodanir. Evayne tried to remember the canon of the kin, but she could not recall it without the aid of the seer’s crystal, and she had no time to coax the information from the mists. How did it get here? Who’s the fool who plays at demonology?
It was supposed to be a lost art, although there were mages—there would always be mages—who studied its lore and practiced it. In the debate in Averalaan’s Order of Knowledge, there were always those who felt that the study of the lost arts—demonology, necromancy—should be allowed to come out into the open, if for no other reason than the fact that knowledge was a weapon against the dangers of misuse. The motion was always brought forward by the younger members of the Order, and always defeated by the elder.
Evayne, on the rare occasions when she was present for debate, always counseled the vote against. You cannot control them all of the time, and it only takes one slip, one mistake, to begin the end of everything.
“Evayne Doomsayer,” she had been called. “Evayne Truthspeaker,” was her reply.
She almost tripped over a tree root that had been exposed by the spring runoff. Cursing, she righted herself, leaving some of her skin on the bark. She had no time to lose.
The demon must not be allowed to reach the girl.
• • •
There is a wild keening that only animals can make. Part howl, it holds the essence of the forest nights, the sparse winters, the fires, and the storms that nature knows and accepts.
The seeress froze as that cry filled the wood. It was low yet loud, the tremor before the quake.
Evayne realized just how much noise and life there was in the forest when it suddenly ceased to be. There was a silence so encompassing that she thought, for a brief instant, it might go on forever. Into that silence, the howling started in earnest. Where there had been three in the forest, there were now four.
She raised a hand to her mouth and whispered a quiet prayer to the Hunter God. She had seen death, but the Death that he granted was one that she prayed never to witness again—certainly not to experience. Balling both hands into fists, she began to run once more.
• • •
Ellekar’s hair would not come down; it rode the back of his neck and arms like iron spikes. He, too, felt the reverberations in the silence.
It cannot be. It is not the right time.
But correct time or no, when the second such cry came, Ellekar knew it for what it was: the Death of the human Hunters. Such a howling was almost akin to the Great Beast of Allasakar—and what made it could not be faced down. Not by a tracker.
He froze in place, becoming more rigid and still than the trees that surrounded him. Ears pricked, he listened as the silence returned, trying to gauge direction and distance. What he heard instead was the sound of snapping twigs and shaking leaves. The sound of human breath.
It was not his quarry, and it was not the Death. But it was human, and it was approaching him quickly. He’d listened to the sounds of their clumsy feet through the forests for decades, and he knew it well. He now had three problems; one, he could not face and survive; the other two he could not allow to survive.
He growled, but the sound was almost entirely contained by his throat.
• • •
The seer-born had instincts that they learned quickly not to question. Evayne a’Nolan suddenly leaped between two maple trees to her right, responding physically to the instinct before she realized it was there.
A claw shredded her hood, grazing the back of her neck.
She wheeled, crouching behind the broad back of a rotting log. A second later, she was rolling again—a controlled thrust of leg and turn of shoulder that ended with both of her feet firmly planted.
Ten feet away, staring at her with an expression of surprise that was already fading into determination, stood the demon-kin. He was tall, almost preternaturally slender; his head was roughly human in shape, except around the jaw. The skin there was extended around teeth that came out in a long wedge.
She moved again as he pitched forward, dropping his hands onto the earth. Trackers ran best on four legs, not two, and they never chose to be slow in the chase.
Only in the kill.
She rolled, dodged, ran in short bursts. He followed, slashing and snapping at empty air or the occasional fold of cloth that just barely slid out of his grasp.
Neither spoke a word, as if, by mutual agreement, they chose to make their combat as quiet as possible. The Hunter’s Death was close, and even fighting for their lives, they had no wish to attract it.
But Evayne was tiring rapidly, and the tracker was not; the kin didn’t feel physical exhaustion when on the mortal plane.
He’s too fast, she thought, as she rolled again. I’m not going to—No. She bit her lip and took a second to catch his moving shadow. Jumped out of his way. Then, lifting one arm in a rigid line, she began the incantation.
As Evayne watched, a thin streak of lightning crossed the clearing in a blink of the eye. It wasn’t going to work. The demon-kin had a way of protecting themselves against the weaker magics, and her strongest elemental spell was considered unworthy of note by the Collegium and the Order.
Crackling blue light struck the demon’s chest, transforming into a thin, erratic cage an inch from its skin. The creature screamed.
It was a cry of rage and of pain; there was no fear in it. Evayne didn’t stop to marvel or wonder. She ran. And as she ran, she smiled crookedly, remembering what day it was. High Summer. She intended to make the most of it, although she knew it wouldn’t last.
Come on, girl, she thought as she nearly flew between the trees, where are you? In the distance, the demon was once again silent. Evayne knew what it meant, and she cursed the Hells for it, for all the good it would do. She was tired, and she didn’t have the energy necessary to contain the creature magically; she wasn’t even certain that she had the skill.
Where are you?
Evayne paused behind the smooth, barkless wood of a stripped cedar. Breaths were shallow and slightly painful; she forced herself to inhale slowly and deeply. Standing thus, she found the girl.
Or rather, the girl found her. She came out of the woods in a sudden rush. The movement barely caught the corner of Evayne’s eye before she was overrun.
Where the demon and Evayne had fenced in silence, the girl had no fear. She let out a strange, keening noise that was halfway between a child’s whine and a dog’s. Before Evayne could move, the girl bounded up to her, throwing her arms around the seer’s waist.
Evayne pulled her arms free, and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulders. “We don’t have time for much,” she said, her voice light with relief. “Hold on tightly and walk when I say walk.”
The girl said nothing at all, but she watched Evayne with unblinking eyes as the seer reached into her robes and pulled out three things: a pale, speckled robin’s egg for spring, a diamond—symbol of eternal beauty—for summer, and grains of the coming harvest for autumn. She placed them on the ground and traced three concentric circles that enclosed them both, whispering quietly as she did. Then she placed the robin’s egg in the outer circle, the diamond in the middle, and the grains at her toes. The sun was still high, the day was still strong. Fingers of light illuminated the forest floor.
The girl growled; Evayne looked up. A breeze blew strands of her hair into her eyes, but she saw nothing else. The growling intensified, and Evayne began the High Summer chant.
Reaching into her robes a second time, she pulled out her dagger. An amethyst caught the light and sent it scuttling down the perfectly balanced blade. It was an old piece, this dagger, and the getting of it had cost her much.
But it was not the time for memory. With a quick blade stroke, she drew her own blood, and then with another, the girl’s. The girl stared down at her forearm as blood dripped earthward, but she made no new complaint; growling seemed to require all of her attention.
The breeze grew stronger and then died down. It felt nice to let the sweat evaporate in the summer heat. The wind reminded Evayne of Callenton in her youth. The wind . . . downwind . . . she looked down at the girl and realized why she was growling.
Evayne lifted her knife-hand skyward in supplication.
“I have drawn the circles, and I have paid the price. In darkness, and against darkness, have I fought and will I. On this day, shadow shall have no dominion.” She let her knife drop to the ground within the smallest of the circles. The outer circle began to shimmer.
The girl shifted restlessly. Evayne continued to chant. “Let the light be cast wide enough that I might see the paths hidden, the paths perilous. For on this day, darkness shall have no dominion.”
She raised her voice so that it carried over the sudden crashing in the undergrowth. She did not turn her face to see the tracker as he ran. The girl did; Evayne’s one-handed grip grew pincer-like.
“As we see by the light, let the light see by us; on this day, let us be judged worthy to walk; we are supplicants, we will abide without fear. On this day, evil shall have no dominion.” The second circle began to shimmer.
Now, Evayne turned to see the demon-kin. She felt no fear and no exhaustion. She threw her shoulders back and felt the light of the High Summer circles warm her throat, her chin. The girl, she drew against her chest and held tight.
The demon’s smooth skin glistened in the sunlight. She could see his muscles as his hind legs propelled him forward. Even as she watched, they locked; he froze as he reached the outer periphery of the High Summer Circle. His eyes were darkness and shadow, and these Evayne had already denied.
“You are,” she said, raising her empty knife-hand, “too late. The path is open. I see what the darkness hides. Your name is clear.” The demon began to back away. He gestured, but it was futile. He had no defense against the season, and none whatsoever against his name. “You are Ellekar-sarniel of the kin, and by the light of the High Summer Circle, I bid you begone!” And the last circle flared to life, glowing so brilliantly it hurt the eyes. Golden light bathed the clearing, the very essence of the sun at High Summer.
The creature screamed in rage and pain. He struggled against her knowledge and against her control. But the circles glowed brighter, glowed stronger, and he raised his hands to his eyes as he fell. His face sought the dirt as his skin began to burn.
“On this day, you shall have no dominion.” Evayne felt the thread of his resistance snap. As quickly as that, he was gone; only the gouges in the ground were left to prove he had been there at all. She looked away as her charge stirred restively against her.
“Come,” she said, in a voice full of strength and hope. “Can you see the path? We must walk it.” She lifted one arm and held it wide; a fine, beaded mist seemed to trail from her sleeve toward the circles on the ground.
Evayne thought that this conjunction might resemble the path of the otherwhen, but in this she was mistaken. She watched as, for the first time in centuries, the hidden path was revealed.
The forest did not fade from sight. Instead, it became, by slow degree, older and grander. The trees became wide and wider still; they stretched skyward until their tops could not be seen. The forest floor became darker and softer, but where sunlight cut through the tree cover, it was distinct and golden.
“Come.” She spoke quietly to her companion; the forest seemed to demand it. “We must be clear of the path by the end of High Summer’s Day or we will not leave it for another year.” Her hand, she placed upon the girl’s bare shoulder. She felt a shock of kinship then, a recognition that words could not express.
The girl looked up at Evayne and uttered a soft, little bark. Evayne returned the girl’s regard, and then shook her head softly. “You cannot speak?”
Silence was enough of an answer.
“It doesn’t matter here. We will find another way to talk. Are you cold?”
The girl said nothing, and after a moment, Evayne reached out and gently took one of her hands. “Follow me, child. We will be off the road and in safe surroundings soon enough.”
Her robe began to heal itself as she walked. It was a gift from her father, and it could not be easily destroyed. The same, she thought, in quiet reflection, could not be said of its wearer.
• • •
They came out of the forest so abruptly they were almost hit by a passing wagon on the crowded city streets of Averalaan. What made matters worse, and a reasonable apology on either side difficult, was the fact that Evayne’s companion had not, magically, become well-clothed, or even clothed at all, during their walk on the hidden path. Averalaan was the capital of the empire of Essalieyan, but although a more cosmopolitan atmosphere could not be found on the continent, or off it for that matter, nude, disheveled young women were not a common public sight.
It was one of the few times that Evayne did not wonder when she was before she wondered where—exactly—the path she traveled had taken her. She had friends in Averalaan scattered across at least five decades, and one of them was certain to be able to help her. One of them could guard and protect a girl who was important enough that some mage had risked the forbidden arts to conjure one of the kin to hunt her.
Calm down, she told herself, taking a deep breath. Where and when am I? She looked around as people continued to shout or point, and the chaos of the crowds in front of buildings that overhung the street in a tight, disorderly fashion told her what she needed to know.
Of course, had the path not led them to the heart of the city’s largest market square, life would have been less complicated. Or perhaps more so.
“You aren’t going anywhere.” Grabbing the girl’s shoulder with her left hand, Evayne held her in place as she searched through the pockets of her robe, looking for coins. She carried gold solarii and silver lunarii, but coppers and half-coppers were not of interest to her; they weighed too much and proved, always, to be of too little value in her travels.
The dates of the coins were as early as 387 AA, and as recent as 433 AA. She took, as always, the oldest coin first and began to push her way through the crowds. Several people tried to stop her, whether to lecture her or show their concern, she didn’t take the time to discover. She met their gazes with her now impenetrable violet glare, and they moved aside.
The girl was content to be pulled through the crowd, although she herself did not seem to feel any of the acute embarrassment that Evayne did. I do not understand, the seer thought, as she turned onto Crafting Street, holding fast to her charge. It was clear that her mind was not quite right, and Evayne worried about adding a fey child to the struggle—although she knew instinctively that this “child” was no helpless pawn, no easy victim.
We’re all part of it, child, adult, weak or strong. One way or another we win or we die, and if we die, does it matter how the death’s met?
It mattered, of course. But what was done was done; the girl had come to Essalieyan, and safety. Together, they entered the long, open stall of a clothing merchant.
• • •
The year was 402 AA, and evening was closing in on the eighth of Lattan. She would not be able to leave the city the same way she had arrived in it, but she was glad of it—the High Summer road, while quiet, was not peaceful, and it was said that there was always a price to pay for the traveling of it. Superstition, of course, but Evayne herself was proof that superstition was not always wrong.
The girl at her side did not seem to notice the strangeness of their transit. She did, however, seem to notice the oddity of her clothing, which was a simple, sturdy dress that could be pulled over the head and gathered at the waist. The color was a rusty brown with fringes of green and ivory, none of which suited the wearer—but it had been late enough in the day, and the buyer had been desperate enough, that aesthetics were not in question. Scratching and pulling at the dress, the girl kept an eye on Evayne as if to say, “You see, I’ll wear it, but I don’t have to like it.”
The market square was a mile from the merchant’s port, but in Averalaan the city streets near the dockside were orderly, clean, and most important, very well patrolled. Evayne led her charge along the open roadways until she reached the boardwalks. They were the pride of Terralyn ASallan, master builder. He said they could keep back the very tides of time, and if no one believed him, they were still impressed at the length and breadth of the builder’s work.
“If we hurry,” Evayne said, speaking more to herself than to her companion, “we’ll be able to cross by the bridge. Otherwise it’s the ferry for us.” She caught the girl’s hand and began to walk more quickly, listening to the thump of her feet against the planks.
They made the bridge, although they almost missed the hour; Evayne’s pockets contained coins too large for the toll required, and the guards, after a long shift, were not in the mood to be lenient. Neither was Evayne, and after the ensuing debate, in which they implied that she wasn’t fit to cross the bridge to the High City and she implied that they weren’t fit to bear the emblem of the Twin Kings, she was at last granted passage across.
She let the wind across the open water play with stray strands of her hair. Be calm, she thought, and as quiet as possible. He hates noise and bustle.
Holding to that thought, she made her way through the High City streets toward the Order of Knowledge.
Before she entered the grand, four-story building, she took the time to pull her hood up and arrange it so its shadow covered all but the tip of her nose.
“Come,” she said softly, taking the girl by the hand again. “But be as quiet as possible.” The warning wasn’t necessary; the girl hadn’t seen fit to utter more than an outraged squeak since their arrival.
Together, they walked between the pillars of the entranceway and into the grand foyer. Here, the ceiling was one large arch that stretched from wall to wall. Sun, when the sun was high, streamed in through the slightly slanted windows above, giving the Order a sense of lightplay that otherwise dour mages would never see. There were guards lined up as they walked, one per pillar for a total of six, but they were less a matter of utility than show. As show, they wore the Order’s colors quite well; their black shirts, white pants, silver-embroidered sashes, and gold shoulder plates were of a quality made only by the High City seamsters.
The girl seemed to find them quite interesting, and Evayne stopped to let her wander around both pillars and guards. When she returned, she wore a very quizzical expression.
“They’re at attention,” Evayne said. “They aren’t allowed to move. Now, come.”
The doors were opened by doormen who also wore the colors of the Order but without the dramatic weaponry that the guards bore. Evayne nodded politely, although she knew they couldn’t see her face, and walked up to the gleaming, stately desk that barred would-be curiosity seekers from the Order proper.
A rather bookish man looked up from his paperwork. His face was as sour as the foyer was grand. Evayne wondered what mistake he’d made that had incurred the wrath of the Magi. Very few of the members ever manned this particular desk themselves. “What do you want?”
Obviously, there was a good reason for the lack. Evayne’s hood hid her smile. “I’ve come to see Meralonne APhaniel.”
“You’ve got an appointment, have you?”
“I don’t usually require appointments to see him.”
“You don’t usually see him, then. He always demands appointments be made. It’s a question of being orderly.” The man returned to his notes with something just short of a sniff.
“Excuse me.”
He looked up balefully. “Are you still here?”
“Yes. I’ve come to see Meralonne APhaniel, and I’m afraid I can’t leave until I have.”
“Well, we’ll see about that,” the man replied.
“GUARDS!”
• • •
Meralonne APhaniel was one of the Magi, the council of twenty, and one that directed the business of the Order of Knowledge. He was not a young man, and Evayne often wondered if he had ever been one. He was tall, but somewhat gaunt, his skin lined and pale, his hair a platinum and gold spill that crept down the middle of his back when exposed. As one of the Magi, he was not only entitled to wear the colors of the Order, he was expected to.
But, as common wisdom held, the Magi were all a little insane—certainly, they were no ordinary men and women—and when Meralonne was forced from his room in the study tower by two of the Order’s guards, he came down the stairs in his favorite bathrobe, and very little else.
The man at the desk—Jacova ADarphan—was consigned to desk duty for another three weeks, and there was every sign, from the mutinous expression on his face, that that stay would have cause to be extended. Evayne, however, was removed with extreme pointedness from that list of future causes by a rather irate Meralonne.
“You really shouldn’t have been so hard on him,” she said, as she climbed the tower stairs. “No, we want to go up.” The girl gave her a look best described by the word dubious and then began her four-legged crawl up the carved, stone stairway.
“If I’m to be disturbed,” he replied, his brows still drawn down in one white-gold line, “it had better be with good reason. ADarphan wouldn’t recognize a good reason if it spitted him.” He frowned. “And come to think of it, neither would you. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I’ve come to ask a favor.”
“What, another one? I’ve wasted years of precious research time with your education—for free, at that!—and you’ve come to ask me for more?” A head bobbed out from around the corner of the third-story landing. “This is a private conversation, ALandry—get back to your books!”
“Sir!” The head vanished.
Meralonne had a tendency to have private conversations that the entire High City had no choice but to hear. Evayne’s forehead folded into delicate creases. “My Lord APhaniel, might I remind you that in return for your time, I’ve—”
“‘My Lord,’ is it? Don’t talk back to your master,” he snapped. “I know perfectly well what we agreed to at the time, but if I weren’t an honorable man, I’d demand more.”
They reached the wide sitting area near the window of the fourth floor’s gallery. Evening had almost fallen, and the curtains to the window had been drawn. Lamps, with a nimbus of light that seemed a little too strong be natural, gave the paintings and sculptures of the gallery of the Magi a preternatural glow; it was almost as if, at any moment, any one of the images, invoked, would come to life. Meralonne walked past them briskly, taking the time to reknot his bathrobe’s belt as he did. Evayne glanced from side to side, wondering if anything the gallery contained was new to her. And the girl trotted—there really seemed no other way to describe her motion—from picture to sculpture to picture again, her eyes wide with wonder or curiosity.
But at last they passed the gallery completely, and entered into the chambers of Meralonne. As one of the governing council, he was permitted to keep a residence within the Order itself, and if it was small and suited only for living in and not for entertaining, no mage yet had been heard to complain.
“You realize,” he said over his shoulder, “that I’m liable to be called upon to explain this public disruption?”
“Yes, Meralonne.”
The door swung open into a chaotic jumble of papers, books, slates, and the occasional scrap of clothing.
“When you were a young girl,” the mage said, “you knew how to be properly respectful. Of all the traits to grow out of, Evayne, that one is least pleasing. Well, don’t just stand there gawking. I was in the middle of something important when you barged in.”
“Yes, Meralonne.” Evayne walked into the room, very carefully pulling the hem of her robes well above her feet in order to make sure she didn’t step on anything vital. The girl followed with considerably less restraint, something that was not lost on the mage. He did not seem nearly as annoyed at the girl as he did at his student.
“Don’t be condescending. It doesn’t suit you.” Meralonne found a chair beneath a small pile of clothing. He took it. “Now, what it is this time?”
“The girl,” Evayne replied. But as her master sharpened the steel-gray focus of his eyes, she found herself watching him. It was hard, with Meralonne, to tell what age he was, he aged so well. His hair was perhaps a touch whiter, and his eyes slightly more creased than the last time she’d seen him; he was clean-shaven and ill-dressed as always.
And yet. And yet. At sixteen, she had found his curmudgeonly ways almost a comfort; at twenty-eight, she was not always certain how much was affectation, and how much genuine. There were times when she could catch a glimpse of something darker, something far more somber, in his words. Then, the lines of his body would alter subtly.
Only once had she seem him called to the private duties that were his, by right, to take on. He set aside his poor clothing for dress that could only be described as magical, pulled back his hair in a long braid, and girded himself as if for battle. She had asked him, then, where he was going, and the expression, distant and cool, frightened her more than his temper, his growling, or his pointed unkindnesses. He hadn’t answered. She never asked again.
Meralonne was the teacher that the otherwhen had taken her to when she had started walking the path twelve years ago. For the first eight years, it had brought her to him every other day. He was the only living person that she had seen so regularly, so . . . normally. He aged as she did, and he remembered her almost as she remembered herself.
Not, Evayne mused, as every other person that she met did. They might be old yesterday, and a child tomorrow; they might remember meeting her ten years ago, when she would not meet them again for decades; they might be dead or dying, but live on in the otherwhen, compromised by the vividness of their end in her memory. They might have information for her that she could not use in any future she could see, but that she could not afford, ever, to forget. Evayne did not forget.
And they might gaze at her with awe and fear, and no understanding whatsoever.
“Evayne,” Meralonne said, catching her attention with the flat of his hand against the crowded top of his desk. “I’m speaking to you!”
“I’m sorry. I was thinking.”
Meralonne snorted. “And you do it rarely enough I shouldn’t complain. But you can think on your own time. Give me explanations instead. What is this girl, and why did you bring her here?” He reached into his desk and pulled out a leather pouch so worn that it shone from years of accumulated oil and sweat. Evayne grimaced as he pulled a pipe dish from it. Of all his habits, this was the one that she found most odious. And, of course, the one he would take no criticism of.
She lifted her shoulders delicately and let them fall in a graceful shrug. “I don’t know who she is. But as to why I brought her—let me show you.” She let her hands tumble in the air in slow free fall, and as she did, she spoke.
The words had all of the rhythm of language, but none of the sense; their cadence deliberate, evocative, and elusive. No man or woman, be they mage or merely mortal, could repeat what she said, even if they heard it all, and listened with a mind devoted to that purpose. She knew that if she were a better mage, she wouldn’t need the words or the gestures to find her focus.
Meralonne knew it as well, but he nodded gruffly as the spell progressed, because it was a difficult spell—a subtle one, and not a spell for the warrior-mage.
Any idiot, he was prone to say, can learn how to throw fire and lightning around. Look at nature—how much thought and purpose does nature show? But I’m not about to train just any sentient mammal. You’ll learn magery, not some trumped-up sword-substitute.
Yes, Meralonne.
And she learned as if her life, or more, depended upon it. Because, of course, it did.
As the last of the spell-words echoed against the sturdy stone walls of his chamber, Evayne lifted her hands as if to embrace the empty air. Light the color of her irises showered in sparks from her fingers, dancing across the air and leaving multiple trails. She looked directly ahead, her focus short, her violet eyes wide. Slowly, as she concentrated, an image began to form between her outstretched arms.
He uttered an oath under his breath, in a language that Evayne did not understand. “You’re losing your focus, girl. Concentrate. Have you learned nothing?” But his heart wasn’t in the complaint, and the words had no sting, no real energy.
He stood, lifting his pipe arm, and walked over to Evayne’s illusion. Smoke wreathed his face, his hair. Carefully, he began to examine the details. “It ran like this?” He asked in a tone of voice that was almost subdued.
Evayne nodded.
“I see.” He turned to look at the girl, who remained silent. “Well, little one, it seems you’ve attracted the wrong person’s attention.” He studied her more intently, steel-gray eyes meeting near-black ones. “Evayne, how did you see that creature and still escape with your life?” His voice was soft now, even quiet. There was no inflection to the words.
“High Summer rites,” she said. It was hard to speak, think, and hold the image static.
“High Summer rites.” The words were stilted.
“I—I walked the hidden roads.”
“You did. And who taught you this skill?”
“You did! We studied them in the—”
“We studied their theory, Evayne. Trust the master to know when the pupil has been properly tested.”
She swallowed. It was true.
“Still, if you managed to use the theory to escape such a creature, I will do my best to be grateful at a quickness of thought that you rarely reveal.” He lifted his finger, and the room flared with an angry orange light. The image of the demon was torn into beads of spell-light that faded before Evayne could piece them together. “Very well. You’ve shown me what you had to show me. You will not image that in my presence again. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Good.” He passed his hand over his eyes. “You were the best student I ever had the hardship of teaching. You know what this will mean. Demonology is being practiced again; keep it quiet until we find the source, or we’ll have widespread panic.” His gaze narrowed. “Where were you?”
“Breodanir. In the King’s hunting preserve.”
“You think that the Breodani—”
“Absolutely not.”
Meralonne raised a pale brow. “You aren’t usually this defensive, Evayne. Are you reacting instinctively or because of experience?”
She said nothing, but blushed; both were as he expected.
“Still, Breodanir. There’s something about it that seems vaguely familiar. There’s certainly an Order there, if small. Let me see.” He walked over to his desk, and began to search—sift, really—methodically through the papers and journals there. It was quite clear that the chaos represented some form of order to the mage, but what exactly it was, Evayne couldn’t say. When she had studied more intensively under his tutelage, her desk had always been meticulously tidy and well-organized. “Ah, here it is.”
Evayne held out one hand, and Meralonne gave her a piece of paper. It was a letter from Zoraban ATelvise. Something about the name was familiar; it nagged at her thoughts, holding knowledge just out of range of her immediate memory. “Who is he?”
“Zoraban? The head of the Order in Breodanir.”
“The head of the—” She went pale. “I remember now.”
“Remember what?” It was a sharp question, sharply worded. Meralonne’s steel-gray eyes were narrowed to a dangerous edge; they glinted like blades. It was clear, from the color of Evayne’s face and the momentary twist of her features, that the memories were not pleasant ones.
She fell silent; it was her only defense against the mistake she would otherwise make. The otherwhen held its secrets, and her life was hostage to them. She remembered, as she always did at times like this, the first step that she had taken on the path. She stood beside a figure whose features shifted so regularly and so completely she could not describe him at all. He spoke with a voice that was a multitude of voices, and gestured with an arm that was an infant’s, an old man’s, a brash youth’s. For the sake of the world, he said, I will let you walk my path at your father’s behest. But it is my path, and I share it with only you, child. You will share it with no other. Remember this: that what is, is; what will be, will be. You are your own time, and you must live as if your time is all there is. You will never be able to change your actions, once taken. What you choose to do now, at forty you must abide by, as any other mortal; you cannot reverse it by use of the otherwhen, no matter how hard you try. And if you try . . . He lifted a hand, and the path became molten, bubbling and hissing inches away from her toes. There will be no path, and no future for you. After all, time will still exist, no matter who wins the war.
And will I control this path?
He laughed. She could still hear it, a mixture of anger and sorrow. Who claims control of his own destiny? Not I, not you. The path will take you where you need to go, little sister.
Meralonne hated her silence. It was these impenetrable spaces that had driven distance between them and kept it there over the years. He watched her still face, her opaque eyes, the way she bit her lower lip. He saw the struggle in her rigid stance.
Perhaps, had he not given his word at the outset of his tutelage, he would have forced the issue; he did not. But he returned silence with silence, and the distance between them grew a little larger still.
At last, she started, and turned to face him.
“What would you have of me, Evayne?”
“If you would, I would have you watch the girl. She is safer here than anywhere in Essalieyan, and until we understand what the demon-kin want with her—until we know which mage summoned it—I think she must be kept safe.”
“Agreed.” A thin stream of smoke trailed out of the corner of his mouth. For a moment, he resembled a dragon in the center of his messy hoard. “And you?”
“I don’t know.” She turned to face the blank wall of the mage’s study; it was the only clear space in the room. “This has something to do with the Breodanir God. The Hunting God.”
“Evayne, it hasn’t been proved to the Order’s satisfaction that such a god even exists.”
“If he doesn’t,” she said, her voice sharp with sudden pain, “his avatar most certainly does.” She bit her lip as the words left her in a rush. She wasn’t thinking clearly, but she never did where Stephen of Elseth was concerned.
“I see.” Meralonne raised both pipe and brow in unconscious unison. “Very well. I will see to the girl’s safety. But you, student, you look peaked. I recommend something foreign to your nature: sleep.”
She smiled bitterly and nodded. “I’ll take my old room, if you don’t mind.”
“Evayne?” She turned back, framed by the door. Her eyes were shadowed with fatigue that was not feigned. “One day, I demand an explanation.”
“One day,” she said, as she always did, “I will give you everything you demand.” It was as much an apology or explanation as either was willing to give.
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.”