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Shadows of Destiny
Rachel Lee


They have liberated Anahar, but for Tess Birdsong and Archer Blackcloak the war has only begun.Anari slaves are rebelling in Bozandar, and the streets of that sparkling city are wet with blood. Tess and Archer must forge a peace between the warring races, for only together will their combined armies have the strength to move against the dark forces gathering to the west. As the scars of old wounds are ripped open, pitting brother against brother and the Ilduin sisterhood against itself, Tess and Archer march into a battle that will determine the world's fate. Guided by snow wolves, moving under the dark cloud of a bitter prophecy, they ready themselves to strike at the enemy's seat of power, a mountain fortress that has never been taken.But their greatest danger comes from within, for Archer carries a dark secret that may doom them all…









Shadows of Destiny

Rachel Lee





www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


To Holly, for the song of Anahar.

And to Matt, for the courage of the Anari.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight



Epilogue















Chapter One


“And be ye faithful always, one to the other,” the priestess intoned quietly.

“And be we faithful always, one to the other,” Tom Downey and Sara Deepwell responded.

“The grace of the gods be with you always,” the priestess said. “You are now one before this company, before the gods, in this world, and in every world where you may travel.”

Tom and Sara kissed. Cilla Monabi could feel the radiant glow in her sister Ilduin’s heart, and her own heart shared Sara’s joy. Yet this time of joy would be fleeting. Sara met her eye, just for an instant, and nodded. She, too, knew.

But for tonight, they would celebrate.

The stones of Anahar did not sing in celebration, though Cilla could feel the joy of the gods as she walked through the temple. A precious love was joined, and even in a world fraught with war and the black hatred of Ardred, that precious love was worthy of joy.

The marketplace before the temple was adorned with the trappings of a wedding, for in the wake of the war that had taken so many of their number, the Anari longed for just cause to wear their finest, cook their best, sing and dance beneath the stars. Cilla found Ratha at the edge of the crowd, his iridescent blue-black face impassive, his obsidian eyes unreadable.

“Dance with me, cousin,” she said.

“I cannot,” he replied quietly, almost with shame.

Cilla placed a hand on his strong, muscled, scarred arm. “Look around you, Ratha. The men and women of Monabi Tel are dancing. Giri was their kin, and my own as well.”

“He was my brother,” Ratha said. “We had endured so much together. I am not whole without him.”

They had endured much, Cilla knew. Ratha and Giri Monabi had been betrayed by Cilla’s brother, captured by Bozandari slavers and sold on the block, until Lord Archer Blackcloak had gained their freedom. Their hardships had not ended then, for as they rode with Archer they had found themselves drawn into the lives of warriors. When they had finally returned to Anahar, at the dawn of winter, it had been to kill their betrayer, and then to train and lead the Anari in war.

Ratha had atoned for killing Cilla’s brother, for she had witnessed that act, and her brother’s confession, and pronounced it justice. Such was her right as an Anari priestess and judge. But Ratha had sojourned in the desert to cleanse his soul, and he had returned a different man. Still a warrior, but no longer with a thirst for blood. He had hoped that Giri, too, would find that redemption. Instead, Cilla knew, Ratha had watched as Giri was cut down in the savage battle of the canyon that had destroyed the Bozandari invaders.

And Ratha had not been whole since.

“Dance with me,” she said again, softly, insistently. “Dance with me as Giri would have, with joy in his heart and a jest on his lips. That was your brother’s magic, Ratha. Do not let it die with him.”

He moved as if his limbs were stiff with frost. But he moved. Cilla took his hand and led him to the dance.



Tess Birdsong, too, patiently tried to draw a man to dance. But like Ratha, Archer Blackcloak seemed to find little room for joy in his heart. Guilt weighed upon him like a mantle of lead, and Tess knew it was a guilt neither she nor a wedding could push aside. Yet somehow, she must.

She was no longer the terrified, confused, lost woman who had awakened in a field of blood and death those many months ago. But enlightenment had borne a steep price. Though she had not chosen it, destiny had chosen her, and she was as shackled to its whims as an Anari slave in a Bozandari market.

And still, she did not know who she really was. Amnesia had stolen most of her memory, and while the Temple of Anahar had revealed moments of her past to her, it had failed to fill in all the empty places.

Tonight she had worked to look her finest, her blond hair, longer now than it had been when first she had awakened with a mind as bare as a newborn babe’s, was threaded with blue ribbons and golden trinkets Cilla had loaned her. Her dress, blue rather than the white she usually wore, had been made for her from a fine, glistening fabric found among the spoils of the army they had defeated. Golden ribbon wound it about beneath her breasts, across her middle and around her waist. On her feet she wore fine golden slippers.

Dressed, she thought, like a queen, for a moment of joy that carried the shadow of death.

For death would come. She knew that to the core of her being. Too many had already died and too much evil yet remained.

She avoided touching the walls of the temple. Tonight she needed it to yield no secrets to her, and she feared the stones might do just that.

Outside she sought Archer with her eyes. Something about him remained always apart, even from his closest companions. Hence it was no surprise to find he had stationed himself in shadows at the edge of the square. He leaned against the corner of a rainbow-hued building, one arm folded over a broad chest cased in black fabric. Of all the people present this night, only Archer wore black. He was the quiet mourner at the edge of the celebration, the one who knew better than any of them all that lay ahead.

His gray eyes missed little as he watched the dancers, jugglers and musicians. He even smiled as Tom and Sarah emerged from the temple, wed at last.

But it was a smile that didn’t reach any further than his face.

Feeling a pang for him, Tess made her way through the crowds to his side, and reached for his tanned and battle-scarred hand.

He looked down at her as she gently squeezed his fingers.

“’Tis a fine night for a wedding,” he said.

“Aye, but you look less than joyful. Come, dance with me and allow your heart to lighten for just a brief while.”

“Is yours lightening?”

After a moment, she looked down, away from his perceptive gaze. “We all know what has passed, Archer,” she murmured finally, her words barely audible above the music and laughter. “And we all know what lies ahead.”

“I very much doubt anyone knows what lies ahead. ’Twill be far worse than what we have so far faced.”

“Aye,” Tess nodded. “I have dreams, such dreams….” Her face shadowed, but then she looked at him with a determined smile. “However it may be, and whatever looms ahead, the gods have decreed that we must live. So let us live this night.”

After a moment, he acquiesced and led her into the square to join the other dancers. She had never, to her memory, danced before, but it wasn’t long before Archer had helped her master the simple steps and she was whirling with him in the outer circle of dancers that surrounded an inner circle moving in the opposite direction.

When the feet and body moved to such happy music, it was impossible to remain sad. Before long, Archer smiled and his feet seemed to grow lighter. Tess let go of the pall that always shrouded her heart and let laughter flow freely.

Regardless of what the morrow might bring, life had granted a respite, and she felt it would be wrong, very wrong, not to savor these precious moments of joy.



Topmark Tuzza, the Bozandari commander, could hear the rejoicing in Anahar halfway across the valley where he and his men were imprisoned behind fences, watched by Anari guards. They had been defeated in battle three weeks before by the Anari, and they were still licking their wounds.

The topmark had been invited to the wedding, but had refused the honor. His men were not yet ready for what he was about to ask of them, and he was not about to anger them by attending the wedding as an honored guest. He could not afford to lose his authority over them.

Yet even after all this time, he could still not think of a way to broach the subject. Many of his men, most of his men, thought of the Anari as a slave race. They had set out to conquer a rebellion against the authority of the Bozandar Empire.

How was he to persuade them that there was a greater evil, and a greater cause? That they now must switch allegiance, but yet would not be betraying their own families and people?

Tuzza was no dull man. Sharp wits more than family connections had raised him to the heights. He was related to the emperor, yes. But so were many others. It was only through achievement that Tuzza could stand directly behind his emperor at important events, could offer words of advice directly into his emperor’s ear.

He would be seen as a fool and a traitor when his intent became known. Either one would be enough to make his men turn on him.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the distant sound of reveling, and leaned back in his camp chair, seeking yet again the words that would persuade.

His men, of course, had seen the many healings the Ilduin witches had caused. Many of the more severely wounded had benefited greatly from the Ilduins’ touch…as had he himself. Some had even outright marveled that after a battle so bitterly fought, the Ilduin, who had fought beside the Anari, had been so willing to heal their enemies.

Perhaps that was the place to start. Perhaps he should speak of the Ilduin and the Lord Annuvil, he who was the First Prince of the Firstborn King, long before Bozandari and Anari had ever walked the face of this world. Perhaps he should remind them of the tales of old, and of the nearly forgotten prophecies that foretold such a time as this.

Of course, if he had not himself seen the Ilduin and their powers, had not seen the Lady Tess lead troops into battle, then with one word from her mouth cause the conflict to cease…Tuzza himself might not have believed the dark man who had come to him and said, “I am Annuvil.”

The Firstborn Immortals had vanished so long ago, so many centuries in the past, that it was hard to believe one of them yet survived. Two of them, actually, according to Lord Annuvil.

Yet Tuzza could not deny it. He had seen what he had seen, and he was still alive only because of it.

These times had been foretold. The outcome was unwritten, but the return of the Ilduin and the Firstborn King were writ in more than one prophecy. They were writ on the fabric of every soul, every mountain and stream, every rock and tree, every bird and bear, serpent and snow wolf. They were writ by the gods themselves, and Tuzza knew better than to dispute such a destiny.

His mother had schooled him thus from the time of his birth. His mother and the old Anari woman, each of whom had sat beside his bed and told him stories when he was too ill with fever to rise and run and play. The same two women who had patched his wounds when he fell, ensured that his bedding was clean and that his pillow bore the fresh scent of spring flowers. Looking back, he could hardly remember where his mother left off and the Anari woman had begun, could hardly distinguish which of them had performed which graces in his youth.

They had taught him to respect the old ways, and sometimes—when she was sure no one else could hear—the Anari woman would speak in the Old Tongue. Fragments of words floated into his consciousness, and though he knew not their meaning, he felt once again that sense of wonder, of contact with life, with light, with the gods themselves, which had filled his heart in those bygone days.

But in his childhood that wonder had been bright and beautiful, song and light. It was a dark wonder that now filled him. Fear and grief and a bottomless, aching loss for the men who had died under his command, and the many more who would die in the war to come.

It would be Tuzza who would lead those men—the same men who now sulked sullenly under the eyes of their Anari captors—once again into battle. He would lead them into battle with an Anari host at their sides and a Bozandari host before them.

And more would die at his hand.




Chapter Two


They danced until their bodies were weary, yet their minds did not tire. At last, Archer and Tess slipped away from the revelers and into the quieter night beyond the city of Anahar. Above, the stars looked cold and unforgiving, and beyond the warmth of Anahar’s walls, the wind held a bitter bite.

The unnatural winter, which to the north had left so many to starve and freeze to death, now at long last was reaching the normally warm lands of the Anari. Never had snow been seen in Anahar, but Tess suspected that would soon change.

“His breath still blights the land,” Archer murmured. Lifting his cloak, he drew Tess within its warmth, against his side. “Can you tell yet how many Ilduin he has subverted?”

Tess shook her head, grateful for the warmth Archer shared with her. “Other than the two I have already found, I cannot yet tell for certain.” Her hand lifted to touch the pouch of colored stones that hung around her neck. Each stone belonged to one of the twelve living Ilduin. When she held them in her hands, she could draw on the power of her sisters, or communicate with them. But some yet remained out of reach, beyond her ability to call. Two she was certain belonged to Ilduin who had fallen into Ardred’s clutches. But others remained a mystery to her.

“I am sorry,” she said after a few moments. “If I knew all the other Ilduin, it would be easier. But so far I have met only Cilla and Sara. Some of the others I can reach, while others yet remain untouchable to my mind. It may be that they themselves have not yet discovered their powers.”

“Indeed. Many believe the Ilduin long dead and gone from this world. Why should not some of the Ilduin be among the nonbelievers?”

He sighed. A gust of wind at that moment snatched his cloak and lifted it, blowing its icy breath inside. Tess shivered.

“I fear,” he said presently, “that Ardred must claim more than two of your sisters. This winter he inflicts on us is a sure sign of his growing power.”

“I fear it, too.”

“With the Bozandar Empire lying between us and the lands to the north, it is impossible to learn how many others he and his hive-masters have drawn in. We will need Tuzza’s help to pierce the veil and glean information.”

“I know.”

“A relief army will be leaving Bozandar soon, to come look for Tuzza’s army. There will be a terrible battle. But Tuzza has not yet found a means to convince his men to fight beside the Anari against the greater evil, especially since it may require fighting their brothers-in-arms.”

“It is essential we gain the cooperation of Bozandar.”

“Aye.” He looked down at her, his face unreadable in the starshine. “I would hear any suggestion you might have.”

That was when she realized that he had at last begun to trust her. Always before there had been a sense that he doubted her real purposes. It was a doubt for which she could not blame him. After all, she could remember nothing before the horrific day the past autumn when she had awakened among the slaughtered caravan, knowing not even her own name.

Sometimes she wondered if she should trust herself. At times she had felt the touch of the Enemy, Lord Ardred, like a dark shadow in her mind, seeking, always seeking, something from her. It had been a while, though, since she had felt that chilling, oily touch in her mind, and for that she was grateful.

“I wish I had a suggestion,” she said finally. “I don’t think asking those soldiers to become traitors is going to be easy for anyone, no matter how silver-tongued.”

She felt, rather than saw, his agreeing nod.

“Yet,” he said after a moment, “they will not be traitors, but saviors. Saviors of all men.”

“So go in and tell them who you are. It worked with Tuzza.”

A sigh escaped him, barely heard before it was snatched away by the wind.

“How many will believe that I have lived for so long, hidden among them?”

“I find it hard to believe myself. Has it been as awful as I suspect?”

“It has been a curse. Death would have been welcome countless times. And yet it is a just punishment. My deeds led to the end of the Firstborn. Why should I not wander the world, a stranger among strangers, for the rest of eternity?”

“Not your deeds alone.” She turned to face him, allowing the icy wind to come between them. “Just because you have a conscience does not mean that you alone are responsible. I have looked into the past in my dreams and in the old stories, and what I see is that many were responsible in different ways. Say what you will, Annuvil, the guilt is not yours alone.”

“Mayhap not. What does it matter? I have been preserved for this time, these events. Perhaps if I acquit myself well and do what is expected of me this time, the gods will set me free.”

She tilted her head back to better see him. “You would wish your own end? Are you sure that is a good wish for a man who will lead us in the war against Ardred?”

Surprising her, he chuckled. “There are many ways a man can be set free. Perhaps at last I will be free to be mortal. Perhaps it will be something else. How should I know? The minds of the gods are ever opaque.”

“I am coming to know that well.” She felt a wave of relief at his laughter, though she couldn’t have blamed him for being bitter about his lot. Nor could she imagine how awful these centuries must have been for him.

“It’s a wonder,” she said slowly, “that the years did not drive you mad.”

“Sometimes they did. I am grateful that I have little memory of those times, however. They are blurred in my mind, and all sense of time was lost. I sometimes lived like a beast in the forest, I believe.”

“I’m sorry. Sorry and awed, for I cannot imagine surviving such a thing. How did you make yourself go on?”

“I was promised,” he said slowly. “I was promised that someday my Theriel would be returned to me.”

She stepped back even farther, and ignored the cold wind. For some reason she could not readily name, she felt…hurt. “Who promised you?”

“Elanor. She came to me after…after the destruction. She promised that if I served her well, in the end I would see my wife again. I have clung to that promise.”

“Are you sure you can trust Elanor? Or any of the gods?”

He shook his head. “No. I freely admit I cannot. Their purposes are not ours. But…it is all I have. My heart died with Theriel, and the remaining ember is all that I have left. I must believe.”

“I can see that.” She turned from him, letting his cloak fall away, letting the wind sweep over her and chill her to her very bones. She spread her arms as if to embrace the winter night. A snowflake, such as had never fallen in this valley in the memory of men, drifted down and landed on one of her fingertips.

“I don’t know who I am,” she said slowly, watching the flake melt. “I don’t know where I am from. I have no promises to uphold me. Yet here I am, and I do what I must.”

“Then perhaps your burden is the greater by far.”

She turned suddenly and faced him. “What do they mean when they call me the Weaver?”

“It is said that one day an Ilduin would come who could touch the warp and woof of reality, and bend it to her will.”

“And they think I am that person?”

“You wielded the Weaver’s sword in battle.”

“Anyone could have wielded that sword.”

He shook his head slowly. “Not as you did.”

She closed her eyes, remembering the moment when Tom had placed the sword in her hand and told her what it was. After that, everything had become a great blur. She had little memory of the battle afterward, and knew only what she was told: that she had led a force of men against a flanking attack and had saved the day. That later, with one word, she had caused the battle to instantly still.

A great fear began to tremble in her, colder than the cold that surrounded her. “What does it mean? What is expected of me?”

“I know not.”

“The prophecies. If the Weaver is mentioned in them, there must be some hint, some clue!”

“Have you not realized by now how prophecies are more riddles than foretellings? I cannot tell you what it is you are to do. I cannot tell you how to do it. You must trust, my lady, that when the time comes you will know.”

“There is too much call for trust.”

“I know.” He looked past her down the valley to where the fires burned in the prison compound. “They too must find a way to trust. For trust, I believe, is all that will save us from the wiles of Ardred.”

She turned from him and looked down the valley, too, thinking of the men who must be huddled around those fires, despairing and perhaps even bitter in defeat, a taste that no Bozandari had known before. “Aye,” she said, her heart heavy with dread. “They, too, must trust. And perhaps that will be the most difficult thing of all.”



That night, in her dreams, the white wolf came to her again, as he had twice in reality. He howled, a mournful, spine-tingling sound, then seemed to gesture for her to follow him.

Through the mists of her dream, she slipped after him. As was the way of dreams, she never wondered why she followed, or what the wolf wanted of her. Nor did she feel any fear.

Gradually the mist softened, then faded until she could see the woods through which they traveled. Always the wolf was just ahead of her, pausing in his easy, long-legged lope when necessary to let her catch up.

At last they emerged into a clearing. Above, the sky glistened with a carpet of stars thicker than any she had ever seen. Then, around her, she heard the murmur of voices. She could not make out the words but sensed that she stood in the center of some invisible gathering.

Until now, she had felt nothing, but as she stood there, her discomfort grew, because she felt as if she were being judged by some unseen jury. The wolf remained at her side, but his presence offered scant comfort. She began to think of fleeing from this haunted clearing. At that instant the voices fell silent.

Then a woman stepped out of the shadows, her face concealed by a hood that cast it in darkness.

“Many,” the woman said quietly, “are your sisters who have gone before you. To none of us fell the burden that now befalls you. Yet each of us, in her own way, has prepared your path with promises and prayers. We cannot tell you what is to come, for the gods make a game, and we are bound by their rules. But we will be with you, little sister. If you hear a whisper on the air, listen for our voices. All that lies between is a veil, and that veil can be pierced.”

Before Tess could question her, the woman had vanished back into the shadows. For a second or two, she could hear the quiet murmur of the voice again.

Then she was alone in the clearing with only the white wolf.

He nudged her hand with his cool, damp nose and she blinked.

And gasped. For she no longer stood in the clearing at all, nor was it any longer dark.

Dawn was breaking over the mountains to the east, wreathed in red and pink and orange, the globe of the sun not yet visible.

Nor was she in her bed. She stood halfway between Anahar and the compound housing the Bozandari prisoners of war.

The frigid morning air made her cheeks sting, but she was still surprisingly warm. Looking down at herself, she saw that she had dressed in her fine white woolens and boots, with her cloak about her shoulders. Had she done that in her sleep?

A sound behind her made her swing sharply around, and she gasped as she saw the wolf was still with her.

What was going on? Had she been dreaming? Or had she been awake in some netherworld? Had long-dead Ilduin really spoken to her?

Or was she simply losing her mind?

But then the wolf came toward her and shoved his big, soft head beneath her hand. Instinctively she scratched him behind the ears, and marveled at how silky his coat felt.

She must have been sleepwalking, she thought. Thank goodness she had dressed before setting out from Anahar. Else she would be frozen and dead right now, it was that cold.

She was about to return to the city on the hillside when the wolf tipped back his head and howled. It was a beautiful sound, music unto itself.

And it was answered. Tess felt her scalp prickle as wolves howled back from the awkward, hardy trees that made life for themselves in the green desert that was the Anari lands. The sound was eerie, as eerie as anything she had ever heard. There must have been dozens of them.

But then they emerged from the trees, still howling, a harmony among their voices that reverberated until it sounded as if they numbered in the several dozens. But there were only seven more of them, all as white as the one that stood beneath her hand.

She should have been terrified. She should have fled. She should have tried to call on her powers for protection. Instead she remained rooted to the spot as the wolf pack ran toward her, their yellow eyes bright, mouths relaxed in smiles, as if they were coming home.

When they reached her, their howling stopped and they began to make quiet whimpers and whines as they swirled around her legs, sniffing her as if to learn her. Then, as if by silent order, all seven sat on their haunches and looked up at her.

She spoke, not knowing what else to do. “What do you want?”

The only answer she received was from the pack leader. His head moved from beneath her hand so that he could tug at her robe with his mouth.

He pulled her gently.

Toward the prison compound.

And all the others followed, as if they were tamed beasts at her beck and call. But she knew otherwise, and wondered what it all meant.



Ras Lutte, formerly overmark of the Bozandari army, approached his ruler slowly, as if hoping to avoid notice. He had news to bring, and bring it he must, for such was his duty. But he knew the meaning of the dour visage upon the throne, a face that seemed to bear the weight of the gods themselves upon its features. Lutte was all too familiar with that expression. It had been months, it seemed, since his ruler had borne any other.

Yet the ruler was still an astonishingly beautiful man, fair of complexion, golden of hair, blue of eye. To Lutte and others, it seemed he might even be the spawn of the gods, for never had a man so handsome and charismatic ever been seen before.

Until this brooding had begun.

But at least no one died from these silent broodings.

“My lord,” Lutte finally said, after placing his right fist to his heart and bowing at the waist. “I pray that I disturb thee not, yet the woman has spoken.”

The man on the throne looked up slowly, as if all of his strength were required simply to lift his head. Lutte could not be certain, but he thought he saw tears in his ruler’s eyes. Immediately, Lutte lowered his gaze to the floor. Such things were not to be seen.

“What is it, Overmark?” the ruler asked, each word seeming to wend its way from the bottom of a deep cavern.

“The Weaver summons the wolves, my lord. Soon, the woman says, the Enemy host will march.”

The man’s eyes closed for a moment, then he nodded. “Just as it was foretold.”

Lutte knew little of prophecy and trusted less than he knew. He was loathe even to trust the woman who sat in her room like the shell of a human being, hardly taking even food or drink, her body nearly as desiccated in life as any Lutte had seen in death.

He was a man of science and mathematics, the science and mathematics of war. Born into the Bozandari peerage, trained in the Academy of War, tested in battle, proved in a half-dozen campaigns. His exile after an affair with a topmark’s wife had not changed his nature. It was possible to take the soldier out of the army, but never to take the army out of the soldier. Now he had found another army, and he had taken to the task of training the ragged band of outlaws and exiles into a smoothly functioning fist to be wielded at his will.

But not his will. The will of his ruler. And the will of his ruler was guided by prophecy and the mumblings of the woman. It was, Lutte thought, a shaky foundation upon which to base a campaign. But he had learned loyalty in the academy, and his personal dalliances aside, his professional loyalty was a matter of pride.

He relayed the woman’s words as if they were those of the most accomplished spy, not because he trusted her or her ramblings, but because it was his duty to do so.

“If this is so,” Lutte said, “then our agents in Bozandar must be at their task. Surely Bozandar can crush the slave people and end this rebellion.”

“Bozandar will not be our ally,” the ruler said. “In the end, it will come to us and us alone. It will come to me. For only I can slay my brother.”

Again he is on about his brother, Lutte thought. As if the rest of the world were mere pawns in this sibling rivalry. Lutte had heard the whispers, that his ruler was in fact the second son of the Firstborn King, but he did not believe them. The children of the Firstborn were long dead, if ever they had existed. Lutte needed no ancient good or evil to empower him. The evil of the human heart more than sufficed to afflict the world. And only the good of the human heart could bring it comfort. The rest were tales, legends, myths told to fortify the sheep against the hardness of life, and make the sheep compliant within it.

“Is there anything else?” the ruler asked.

“No, my lord.”

“Then go,” the ruler said. “Tend to your numbers and your geometries. And pray that you never stand on a field where straight lines bend and twice two is not four.”

He did not read my mind, Lutte thought as he bowed and turned to leave. His face had betrayed his skepticism, and his ruler knew of his reputation. It was nothing more.



What a pity, Ardred thought as Lutte left. What a pity that such a talented young mind should lack the most essential of all knowledge: the numbering of the gods, the geometry of the soul.

Lutte was a good soldier, but poor counsel. What he lacked, Ardred most needed. For no man can make war upon his brother with lightness of heart, whatever their past. Once, Ardred had laid siege to Annuvil. Now Annuvil would come to lay siege to Ardred.

Lutte thought he knew what danger lay when two men loved a woman, for such had been his crime. But he knew nothing at all.

Ardred must kill his brother. The world could not be stitched back together until Annuvil was dead. Only then would the glory and true power return.

And all this for the love of a single woman.

Theriel.




Chapter Three


The rustle began at the edges of the Bozandar camp. Muted gasps and movements filtered through the camp as if through the muscles and sinew of a waking giant, slowly willing it into motion. Tuzza put down his pen and emerged from his tent, his senses alert for any hint of danger or malice. He felt none, and slowly made his way through the gathering throng of soldiers at the eastern fence.

“It cannot be!” one man whispered.

“They cannot live so far south!” another added.

“My eyes deceive me, for they bend to her!”

Tuzza shouldered his way through until he could see for himself what had caused such a stir. And his mouth dropped open.

There stood Lady Tess, a semicircle of snow wolves arrayed behind her, silent yet alert, their eyes fixed on her as if she were their pack leader. One of them, however, stood beside her, golden eyes searching among the soldiers until at last they fixed on Tuzza. A shiver ran through him as he made eye contact with the beast, a recognition of something preternatural and unexplainable.

So it was true.

Tuzza instinctively lowered himself to one knee and bowed. He had no need to speak, for his men were still soldiers, whatever their current lot. They knelt with him.

“Rise, Topmark Tuzza,” the woman said, her voice quiet but firm. She spread her hands behind her, indicating the wolves. Then the fingers of one hand returned to rest on the head of the snow-white beast beside her. “Rise and make way for your Lady and her court.”

“Fall in!” Tuzza commanded.

Some, those whom fortune had placed at the rear of the battles and who had not needed her healing touch, grumbled. But they were the fewer, and the looks of their comrades shamed them into obedience.

“Dress ranks!” Tuzza said.

Even in those who grumbled, the first act of obedience had rekindled the training and drill that countless hours had transformed into automatic responses. The men adjusted their spacing, and soon stood in lines so straight that they might have been set down by a surveyor.

Tuzza faced Lady Tess. “My men stand ready, m’lady. We are at your service.”

“Very well,” Tess said, now striding toward them as if she were gliding on air, the wolves in her train.

She marched to the front of the formation, then turned to face them. Once again the wolves took up their places behind and at her side. When she spoke, her voice was clear and strong, a bell ringing in the soul itself.

“I am she who was foretold,” Tess said. While she loathed the words and what they meant, she knew their truth. She could not hide from herself any longer. “Believe, or disbelieve. But disbelief will be your doom, for you will disbelieve that which you now see for yourselves. Topmark Tuzza stands at my service. Where stand you?”

For long moments, the host stood frozen. Tuzza stepped forward and ranged himself beside the lady. Now, perhaps, he could quell the unrest in his ranks and refashion from them an army. He spoke quietly, yet pitching his voice to reach even the most distant of ears among his men. “The days we learned about as children, the days we thought were mere tales fashioned for our amusement, have arrived. While we may have to fight our brethren, our purpose is not to bring about the fall of Bozandar, but her salvation. For the Enemy we fight would bring the death of all.

“Stand with me, my men, for the sake of your families, for the sake of your children yet unborn. For if we do not stand now, we shall face the fate of the Firstborn, and never shall our names be heard again.”

He could see his men wavering, uncertain in their loyalties. Outside the walls of the compound, however, the Anari guards bent their knees and made signs of fealty toward the Lady Tess. Then the wolves began to keen, a sound that made the hair on the back of a man’s neck rise, that sent a tingle running along even the bravest spine.

With a simple movement of her hand, the lady silenced the wolves, a sight so shocking that many doubtful hearts were swayed.

“Brave men of Bozandar,” she said, “declare yourselves now, for your entire future is writ in this moment.”

A ripple of movement ran through the ranks, and when stillness again returned, every soldier had knelt.

The lady opened her arms and turned her face heavenward. To those with eyes to see, she almost seemed to glow a pale blue, an aura that enveloped the wolves at her feet. Then snow began to fall, gently, sparkling in the rising dawn light, looking almost like blood. Above, gray clouds churned, marked red here and there as the sun rose above the mountains.

“He brings the snow,” the lady said. “He seeks to destroy you with cold and hunger. He would murder your brothers and leave barren the wombs of your sisters. He would strike from the fabric of time your very existence. I will not let this be.”

Reaching up with one hand, she appeared to grasp something in the air and twist it. A sudden wind sprang up, strong enough to make men lean. As it blew, it drove the clouds away, clearing the sky until it was the perfect blue of dawn.

The lady lowered her arm and looked at all the men kneeling before her. “Rise,” she said. “You have chosen wisely this day. I will arrange better accommodations for you as swiftly as I can. May Elanor bless you and your families.”

Then she turned and exited the compound, the wolves a protective phalanx around her.



In the Bozandari compound, the murmuring and even arguments continued throughout the day. Some refused to believe what they had seen. The vast majority, however, believed their own senses, and eventually argued the dissenters into silence.

The strongest voices among them were the voices who had seen Tess on the battlefield, those who had seen or experienced her healing and that of her sisters.

Such magicks had long vanished from the world, and had long been thought to be silly tales. Now those who had seen with their own eyes no longer could deny the truth of the stories.

Tuzza chose to remain mostly out of sight this day, while the discussions raged outside his tent. His men had elected to offer fealty to the lady, and he never doubted that they would keep that oath. Honor was held in the highest esteem by the Bozandari army, and these men would not go back on their words. Yet still they might argue about what they had seen and what it meant.

Toward evening, as the sky reddened again to the west and the camp began to settle for another cold night, Archer Blackcloak, he who was Annuvil, came to the prison camp to speak with Tuzza.

The first thing Tuzza noted was that Master Archer, as he preferred to be called, seemed to have grown somehow since last they spoke. It was as if in shouldering the burdens left to him by his heritage, as if in announcing his true identity, Archer had grown physically as well as figuratively. The lines of care and suffering still carved his face deeply, but they only enhanced the sense of power about him.

Tuzza offered him wine, and the two of them sat at the wooden camp table, the map of the Bozandari world between them.

“I heard,” Archer said, “that the lady paid you a visit early this morning.”

“Aye, she did. With eight white wolves.”

Archer’s mouth lifted in a smile. “That must have commanded attention.”

“I am not certain what commanded the most attention—the wolves or when she stopped the snow and drove away the clouds.” Tuzza, who had believed himself to be the most unsurprisable of men, nevertheless sounded awed as he spoke of the lady banishing the storm.

Archer nodded and sipped his wine. “She is full of surprises, that one. Nor does she yet know all she can do.”

“A wild talent?”

“At times. For some reason, the gods deprived her of all memory when they brought her to me and my friends. Whatever she may have known before, all is lost. She knows only what she learns with each passing day.”

“Then she has learned a great deal.”

Archer nodded. “Quite a bit in such a short time.”

“I hear the Anari guards referring to her as the Weaver. Do they mean the one foretold?”

There was a glint in Archer’s eye. “What think you, Tuzza? Did she reach out and cast away a storm?”

“I saw it with my own eyes.” He looked down into his wine and breathed, “The Weaver. I never thought to see such a thing.”

“Few of us did. I do not mind saying that living in the times foretold by prophecy will bring little joy to most of us.”

“No. These will be hard times.”

“The hardest. We will all be sorely tested. Sorely indeed.” He caught Tuzza’s gaze and held it. “All we will have, brother, is trust in one another. I cannot tell you how important that will be.”

“You call me brother?”

“Aye, for you are about to share my burden. And no joyous road it will be.”

“I am honored, my lord.”

“Speak to me of honor when we have passed through this shadow and can clasp hands on the other side.” Archer shook his head. “I have known for centuries that this time approached, yet I am no more ready to face it than I ever was. And it grieves me that others must share my burden, for if I had chosen to act differently long ago, this would never have come about.”

“And I might never have been born and never have seen my children grow to adulthood.”

Archer smiled faintly. “You are very positive.”

“One must be positive to lead an army.”

“Aye, it is so.”

They sat quietly together for a while, sipping their wine, a silent camaraderie growing between them.

The first to break the silence was Archer. “Do you trust your men?”

“Aye. We regard honor very highly.”

Archer nodded, then leaned closer. “Watch them nonetheless, brother. For he has ways of taking over the minds of men. You have heard of the hives?”

“Aye, but I have never met one.”

“You will, before this is done. He draws men into his sway, then bends their will to his. He can even occupy one of them if he wishes. It is as if they have only a single mind, and it is strange to see how they work in concert. That is how he controls his armies.”

Tuzza looked appalled and took a deep draft of his wine. “That will worry me.”

“It should. Once he takes them over, they even lose their fear of mortality. It is unforgivable that he uses them thus, but he does and you must be prepared for it. And you must ever be wary that he might take control of some of your soldiers. For he will certainly try.”

“How can I guard against it?”

“I know of no way to stop it. But when it happens…Ilduin blood judges harshly. Be wary and tell your men to be wary. And know this. While your men may hesitate at the thought of battle with other Bozandari, those whom he holds will not hesitate to cut your men down like chaff.”

After a few moments of clearly pained thought, Tuzza refilled their wine goblets. “Then tonight, my lord brother, we must enjoy the fruits of the earth and the gifts of the gods, for we cannot know when our hour will come.”

Archer raised his goblet in toast and took a deep drink. “We need information about what is happening to the north of Bozandar. Since the rebellion, your armies have made it all but impossible to send scouts in that direction. If there is any way you can get news, I will be grateful. It is never wise to march blind to meet an enemy.”

Tuzza nodded. “I will find a way.”

“I’m sure by now an army marches to your rescue. Ponder on this, Tuzza, for I would not engage them in battle and waste lives needlessly. We must find a way to prevent the fight and convince them to join us.”

“That will be even harder than today was.”

“Aye. I have some notion of the stiff spines of the Bozandar army. And whether you believe it or not, the Anari are every bit as stiff-spined. I would avoid the bloodshed if we can. We are going to need every able man to fight the evil that comes.”

Tuzza’s mouth framed a wry smile. “And apparently we will need some Ilduin as well.”

“Aye, for he has corrupted at least two that we know of, and there may be more.”

“Fire must be fought with fire.”

“Sad to say. I would not corrupt these women in any way, had I the choice.”

Tuzza sighed. “I think they will not be corrupted, my lord. They will see what they should not see, and perhaps do things they will regret, but they will understand why the choices were forced upon them, as any good soldier does.”

“I hope you are right. The three who are with us seem somehow steeped in unassailable purity. I fear it will not last.”

“War carries a heavy toll. But perhaps Lady Tess can travel with me to meet the advancing army. If she could do for them what she did for us today, my job of persuasion would be ever so much easier.”

Archer lifted a brow. “You will not ride alone regardless, Tuzza. For I will not have you called traitor and carried away in shackles. You are no traitor, and we need you.”

“Treason is in the eye of the beholder, Master Archer. My emperor will not see my actions as anything other.”

“Then we need to enlighten him as well.”

Tuzza almost laughed. “He is not an easy man to persuade.”

“Perhaps he has never been swayed before by an Ilduin.”

“Certainly not by the Weaver.”

Archer’s expression grew grave. “She must be guarded at all costs, Tuzza. Ardred will stop at nothing to claim her. The mere fact that prophecy predicted her appearance is no guarantee of safety. The days and weeks to come hold no guarantees. At this point, the future is no longer writ, even for the most gifted of prophets.”

Tuzza’s answering nod was grim. “I understand, my lord.”

“Tomorrow I would take you into Anahar with me to meet my lieutenant Ratha. It is time for us to forge bonds between us, and we must forge them like the finest steel if we are to withstand the onslaught to come.”

“It will be no easy task.”

“No part of this task will be easy. The faint of heart may as well flee right now.”

“There are no faint hearts in this camp, my lord.”

“Nor in mine. But we will come across them, just as we will come across enemies stronger than you now imagine.”

“I have seen what the lady can do, Lord Annuvil. Trust me, I can imagine.”




Chapter Four


We should listen in, Cilla thought, an impish smile on her dark features as she met Tess’s eyes.

Without a doubt, Tess agreed, meeting her gaze. She was still sometimes surprised at the ease with which she and her Ilduin sisters could touch each other’s minds, and remembered the first time she had noticed this ability, as Sara and Tom had demonstrated their love for each other.

Ahem! Cilla and Tess immediately looked to Sara’s window, where Sara was glaring back at them with a mock stern expression. Can a girl have a bit of privacy, please?

Cilla put a hand to her mouth to suppress a laugh, mirth dancing in her eyes. But sister, you are the only hope we have!

Get your own man, Sara thought with a toss of her head, followed by a wink.

I’m trying, Cilla thought. I’m trying.

Tess laughed aloud and drew Cilla aside. “Come, sister. Let us walk together and leave sweet Sara to enjoy her new marriage.”

“Of course,” Cilla said. “’Twas only sport.”

“And pleasant sport at that,” Tess said, her smile fading. “But as our men have gone to discuss things manly, perhaps we should take the opportunity to advance our own knowledge.”

They walked toward the temple slowly, as if reluctant to end the celebratory mood and resume the hard work that lay before them. Even Tess’s visit to the Bozandari camp had seemed almost a royal visit, born of a dream. The snow wolves had slipped away into the hills around Anahar, and now, even with Cilla beside her, she felt very alone as she walked to face the gods.

“Have you any news of Ratha?” Tess asked.

“He has withdrawn within himself,” Cilla said, shaking her head. “I try to tell him it was not his fault that Giri fell, that it is not wise to grieve alone, but he will hear none of it.”

“Do Anari believe in life after death?” Tess asked. For all the time she had spent in the temple at Anahar, she knew little of their religion.

“Yes,” Cilla said. “Of a sort. Giri is beyond the veil now, in the garden of the gods, but his life there—if life it be—is nothing like life here. Those who pass beyond the veil become all and nothing, united yet unique. All of those beyond the veil can feel one another’s thoughts as we Ilduin can, if thoughts they have at all.”

Tess nodded, ghosts of memories flitting through her mind, wispy and unapproachable.

“You do not remember what your people believe,” Cilla said.

“No,” Tess replied. “Although my heart tells me it was not far different from what you have said.”

Cilla smiled. “Why did you ask?”

“We grieve not for those who have passed,” Tess said. “Their pain has ended, their struggles complete. We ought not to be sad on their account, for the life they have now—whatever it may be—is better than any they have known. No, we grieve for ourselves, for the holes that are left in our own lives by the passing of those whom we loved.”

“This we are taught as well,” Cilla said. “It is as if a piece of flesh has been cut from one’s arm. We do not feel the pain of the flesh which is gone. We feel the pain from the flesh that remains, raw and open and torn. Until the body can repair it, the pain remains. But it is never fully repaired, for the scar we build is not the same as the flesh it replaces.”

“Exactly,” Tess said, squeezing her sister’s hand.

“You are saying that Ratha needs time to build a scar over the hole that Giri’s death has left.”

Tess nodded. “And until he can do that, dear sister, he will be too pained to feel your love for him. Or his for you.”

“Give me not false hope,” Cilla said sharply. Then, after a moment. “Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to scold you.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Tess said. “And I am not your lady, but your sister. I must have someone in my life who pays me no homage, but simply shares with me this journey of life.”

Cilla nodded. “Yes, sister.”

“And I give you no false hope,” Tess said. “Trust not in what you see on Ratha’s face just now, nor hear in his words. Ratha cannot look upon you, nor hear you, nor speak to you. Only his grief sees you, hears you, and responds. Grief cannot love. But Ratha can.”

Tess sighed and looked down at the colorful, rainbow-hued cobbles beneath their feet, trying desperately to recall the song that the stones of Anahar had sung when they had summoned the Anari. That song had seemed to open doors within her, to fill her with a sense of awe that had been good, unlike much of the awe she had felt since awaking with no memory.

“Grief,” she said, “is not a gentle thing, Cilla. It claws at us like a ravening beast, and is loathe to release us from its grip. Worse, we find it hard to accept that someone we love is lost to us for the rest of our days. ’Twould be easier for Ratha had Giri left on a long journey with no intent to return. For at least then he would have known his brother still existed somewhere within this world, and that eventually he might hear Giri’s voice again in this lifetime. He has no such hope now. But eventually he will find acceptance, and with acceptance he will return to you.”

Cilla squeezed Tess’s hand. “I pray that you are right, sister. For my heart both leaps and aches every time I see him. Long did I gaze upon him in my childhood, when I hid among the rocks and watched him play. Longer, it seems, was he lost to me after he was taken away into slavery. Then he returned, and it felt as if I had found the missing part of my own soul. And now…”

“Now he is gone again,” Tess said. “For a time. But only for a time, sister. You have been patient these many years. Let not patience fail you now.”

“Listen to you two! Gloom and sorrow!”

Tess and Cilla turned to see Sara, running to catch up with them. Her face shone with the glow of a new bride.

“And why aren’t you in your room with your husband?” Tess asked.

Sara giggled. “Men, it seems, lack…stamina.”

Cilla held up a finger. “You asked for privacy, if I recall? Now you will tell us what we could have heard for ourselves?”

Sara shook her head. “No. I have said all that I will. But a woman cannot live only in her husband’s arms. Not this woman, at least. I need time with my sisters as well. So scold me not for my presence, nor if I should leave you. Tom will not sleep all day, and I will be there when he awakens.”

“I’m quite sure you will,” Tess said, laughing. She turned to Cilla. “Come, let us hurry to the temple, while he sleeps, lest Sara’s…needs…call her away before she can learn anything.”

“Somehow,” Cilla said, “I think she is learning quite a lot. Just not of Ilduin lore.”

Sara smiled. “With sisters such as you, a bride needs no groomsmother. Perhaps the gods will be more delicate.”

“That,” Tess said, sighing, “would truly surprise.” And deep within her, she felt the stirring of anger, anger that her sister’s joy must be overshadowed, anger that they all grieved so much, not only for the past, but for the future as well.

No one, she thought as her steps carried her closer to the temple, should have to grieve for that which had not yet passed. But that sorrow, it seemed, was the fate of the Ilduin.



“The young prophet emerges,” Erkiah said with a smile as Tom entered his chamber. “Although now that you are wed, I suppose that �young’ no longer applies. Pray, Tom, tell me why you lie not in the arms of your bride?”

Tom blushed behind the leathern mask that covered his eyes, leaving only slits for him to see through. Ever since Tess had healed him from fatal wounds received in a Bozandari ambush along the road to Anahar, his irises had grown so pale that he could no longer bear bright light. The mask Tess had thought to make for him had saved him from being virtually blind. “I pretended to sleep. I love her like a fish loves the river, yet we have been so busy these past days in preparation for the wedding…and I found myself missing my studies.”

Erkiah waved a hand at his young charge. “Apologize not, my friend, neither to me nor to her. Apparently she waited only minutes after your ruse before scurrying off to meet her sisters at the temple and continue her own work. In other times, lovers might pale at such a thought. But you both know there is much to be done and little time in which to do it. The shame is only that you could not speak openly of it, one to the other.”

“I fear I am not yet accustomed to marriage,” Tom said. “Nor is Sara, I suppose.”

“I pray that you will have time to grow into it,” Erkiah said, sadness on his features. “For all that has happened, the greater burden lies before us.”

“And Lord Archer’s strength will fail,” Tom said.

Erkiah nodded. “Sadly, yes. Thus it is foretold. It weighs upon us to ascertain how, and when, and stand ready to fortify him.”

“Show me those prophecies, please,” Tom said, walking to the shelves on which Erkiah’s scrolls lay. “Nothing we have learned together will matter if in this we err.”

“You speak truth,” Erkiah said. “If my memory fails me not, that text is on the second shelf, third scroll from the right.”

“If ever your memory fails you,” Tom said, reaching for the vellum, “the gods themselves will quake with fear.”

“You do me too much credit,” Erkiah said, laughing. “I am but a man, and like any other I am prone to error.”

“But not in matters of consequence.” Tom met his eyes, then unrolled the top of the scroll. “Eshkaron Treysahrans. Your memory does not fail.”

Erkiah nodded and watched as Tom stretched the scroll over the table and weighted the corners with candlesticks.

He shuddered and spoke. “I would that I had forgotten. This is a text I have not read since I was a young man. It frightened me so that never again have I touched it, save to pack it for my journey here, and unpack it upon my arrival.”

Tom studied him gravely. This was not the Erkiah he had come to know, eagerly seeking knowledge as a hungry man at morning. “I would ask why it frightened you, but I know your answer already. You will tell me to read it, for then I will know.”

“That is true,” Erkiah said, “though hardly prophecy.”

“Of course it was not prophecy,” Tom replied, smiling. “It is simply what you always say.”

“Prophecy,” Erkiah said, “would be to tell me why I say those same words each time.”

Tom shook his head. “No, it takes no prophet to see this. If I simply commit to memory all that you say, I can never be more than your pale image in the mirror of time. Your wish is that I will be greater than that, and thus you compel me to read for myself and challenge you.”

Erkiah smiled weakly. “I would that we had met in happier times, my son. Were it such, we might spar thus hour upon hour and take joy in the sparring. Alas, we have no such luxury.”

“We will,” Tom said firmly. “We will.”



The Eshkaron Treysahrans was the most difficult of the prophetic writings, but Tom slogged through it with a determination that Erkiah found both admirable and almost frightening. While the name of its author had been lost in the sands of time, Erkiah considered it to be among the oldest of the prophecies, and the one least changed by the pens of the intervening scribes, in large part because few had chosen to transcribe it. His copy might be the only one still in existence. If not, he doubted there were even a half-dozen others.

The title of the work—The Death of the Gods—gave little clue as to its meaning. Unlike the titles of most prophecies, this seemed to have been chosen by the original author, for reasons that had little to do with illuminating the text itself. In fact, the author had gone to great lengths to avoid precisely that sort of illumination.

The text was divided into three sections. The first was a series of riddles without either answers or, it had seemed to Erkiah, any connecting subject line. The second part was a fragmentary chronology, beginning with “the death of the last of the First” and ending with “the birth of the first of the Last,” without any context to identify what beings, or even what kind of beings, were referenced. The few scholars who had appended notes to this section had served only to muddle the issue, with interpretations ranging from the gods themselves to the Firstborn to the Ilduin and even, among the last scholars to attempt, to the Bozandari nobility.

It was the third section—Aneshtreah, or “Admonitions”—which had struck fear in Erkiah those many years ago. In the style of a stern master writing to a recalcitrant young student, it was a series of warnings, each more dire than the last. Its central message was one about trust, or, more aptly, suspicion. It began:



Trust not your mother.

In pain has she born you, in hardship sustained you,

And great her resentment, though hidden it may be.

Trust not your father,

For first when he spawned you was last as he fed you,

And greater his wrath at the end of the day.



And so it continued, admonishing the reader to trust neither man nor beast, friend nor foe, neither wife nor children, neither master nor servant, neither god nor priest. The cold dissection of each relationship left no room for honor, commitment or even love. The final stanza banished all hope:



Trust not the Shadow,

For shadow must fail in the presence of light,

The Dark One must yield to the Fair in the fight.

Trust not the Light,

A dagger he wields for the heart entombed,

While cruelty unbounded his soul attuned.



“By the gods,” Tom whispered as he sat back from the scroll. His face was ashen. “It cannot be.”

Erkiah nodded. “So I thought as well, my friend. And yet, thus it is written.”

“Do I read this right?” Tom asked. “Lord Archer is the Shadow, and the Enemy the Light?”

“The legends say that Ardred was the fairer of the brothers,” Erkiah said. “And surely it does not surprise you that Archer would be called the shadow. From his hair to his visage to the way he has slipped through this world almost unseen for all of these years.”

Tom shook his head slowly. “But if that is true, then Archer will fail us.”

Erkiah simply nodded.

Tom’s face fell as he completed the thought. “And our future rests in the hands of Ardred.”




Chapter Five


The temple seemed troubled, Tess thought. All of the joy she had felt in its walls yesterday was gone, replaced by an aching sense of loss. She tried to avoid the statue of Elanor, hoping that perhaps some other niche, some other graceful curve of stone, would speak to her this time. Yet it was as if the stones had fallen silent, save for a grief that threatened to crush Tess’s heart beneath its weight. It was as if the temple had chosen this moment to mourn the loss of every fallen Anari.

“It hurts,” Tess said softly.

“Yes,” Sara said, tears in her eyes. “Why must it be thus? Cannot we have joy in our lives? Has all of the joy left this world?”

“Perhaps the world was never a well of joy,” Cilla said. “Perhaps joy is something we must bring into it, as an act of will.”

Tess shook her head. Anger grew within her, anger at the way death had stalked her these past months. It was an anger that seemed to spring fully formed from the grief she felt in the stones around her. She had been set onto this path by powers she did not comprehend, impelled and enabled by the death of her own mother, into a game whose rules and objectives were unknown and unknowable, and where the only certainties were blood, sorrow and horror. And death, death, always more death.

Her jaw ached from clenching it as she tried to fight down the surging rage that swelled within her. Losing the battle, she reached for the statue of Elanor, not with the hand of a supplicant but with the hand of an interrogator.

“What foul-tempered god,” Tess asked coldly, “would create a world of pain and misery, and lay upon its frail children the burden of creating joy and hope?”

None, my child.

The voice coursed through her like the shock from a cold stream, and for a moment Tess nearly yanked her hand from the statue. Then, as if steeling herself for battle, she placed her other hand on it.

“Then make yourself known,” Tess said, a firmness in her voice that shocked even herself. “The times are too dire and our hearts too troubled for more riddles. We grow weary of your games. Make yourself known!”

With a crack like the opening of the world itself, the temple flooded with a light so intense that Tess had to turn her face away. Elanor’s presence filled the room, causing the hair on the back of Tess’s neck to rise and her heart to thunder.

You have wielded the sword of the Weaver, but do not dare challenge me!

“I dare and I do!” Tess shouted. “Look at my sister, in tears on the day after her wedding, when she ought to be lying in the arms of her true love, coming here to learn more of that which we need for our journey! Look at my other sister, her heart filled with love and longing for one who cannot know love through the scourge of battle. Look at us and tell us that we have not bled and wept and walked in this path that you have set for us! Look at us and tell us that we are not worthy of even the barest comfort!”

Worthy? Elanor raged back. Would the worthy have rent the world asunder at the start? Would the worthy have set upon this world a race too weak to protect their sons and daughters from the slaver’s block? Would the worthy have gone into the service of Chaos? You speak to me of worthy? �I dare and I do,’ you say? Then dare it and do!

“Tess,” Sara said urgently, taking her hand. “Tempt her not.”

“No!” Tess cried, jerking her hand away. “This must be! Too long have we watched our brothers and sisters slain, our hopes dashed against the rocks like so much worthless pottery. Too long have we quailed before gods, only to see those gods leave us to the wrath of our own kind. We sisters, cursed to see the deaths of our own mothers, that we may become pawns in the games of those gods. No more! No more, I say! I command you, make known yourself!”

You command me?

“Yes,” Tess shrieked, her voice rising above the rushing roar around her. “I command you!”

In an instant it felt as if all of the air had been sucked from the temple. The light swirled and compacted, growing brighter moment by moment, until it distilled into the form of a shimmering snow wolf.

“It cannot be,” Sara said, aghast.

“Aye,” the wolf replied, amber eyes flashing. “Tell me of commands now, Weaver. Tell me that I have not walked beside you, seen what you have seen, borne what you have borne, and more, more than you will ever know? Tell me that my sisters and I have not succored you in your need, from your first battle with the minions of Glassidor to your battles in these mountains to your entreaty to the host within your midst just this morning. Tell me that I have left you alone, and that alone you have faced these hardships. Tell me that I have not guided your steps to this day. Then, and only then, I will attend to your commands.”

Tess, shaken to her core, fell to her knees. The rage and anger born of danger and fear gave way to racking sobs. “I did not know. I did not know.”

The wolf stepped closer, and its muzzle nudged her cheeks, its delicate tongue drawing out her tears. “Faith is found when we do not know, my child. Faith and courage alone can carry you through this time of trial. Never would you have found it had you known.”

Tess nodded, shame and anguish rolling through her in equal measure. Finally spent, she felt her sisters’ hands upon her, stroking her shoulders. The wolf sat before her, its face impassive, patiently waiting.

“You must not tell any other of this,” the wolf said. “None but Ilduin blood may know it, and none but Ilduin blood would believe. You must find your sisters, those whom the Enemy has not yet taken. You will know them when they see me.”

“And you will stay with us?” Tess asked.

The wolf smiled. “We are of different worlds, my child. I can no more stay with you than can the wind. I—we—will be with you as we have always been.”

“May I never see another snow wolf pelt,” Sara whispered, remembering the trappers in the mountains around her native Whitewater.

“We forgive them, for they do not know,” the wolf said to Sara. “Do likewise. Always.”

And then the wolf was gone as if it had never been, save for a single, snow-white hair on the statue of Elanor. Tess, as if bidden by an unknown force, took the hair with trembling fingers and tucked it into the pouch with the Ilduin stones.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, she took a moment to gather her determination and will once again. “Come, sisters. There is work before us. And hope.”



“One thousand, three hundred and sixty,” Topmark Tuzza said, looking across the table at Archer. “Twelve strong companies, enough to form a single regiment. That is how many men I have fit for battle. Perhaps another four hundred could be ready in a month. The rest…”

Tuzza sighed. He had brought six thousand men into the Anari lands. More than half now lay in unmarked graves along his route of march, victims of disease, hunger, the incessant Anari raids, and the final battle in the canyon. He had presided over the worst disaster in the history of the Bozandari Empire.

As if reading his thoughts, Archer said, “And your men are willing to follow you again.”

Tuzza shook his head. “They are loyal to the Weaver, because they have witnessed her miracles. They are loyal to their Topmark—whomever that might be—because of their training. But I have no illusions of their loyalty to my person, Lord Archer. Whatever loyalty I might have inspired was bled white along their journey here.”

“Personal loyalty is a fickle thing,” Archer said. “Only our Enemy can rely on absolute loyalty, and only because his magicks have broken the wills of his minions. No man should ask for such.”

“That much is true,” Tuzza said.

“What of your officers?” Archer asked. “Do they still trust in your judgment?”

Tuzza nodded. “What few remain, though I worry of them as well. Too many of my best officers—those inspired by their deeds rather than their words—fell with their men. And too many of those who remain have come to me petitioning for promotion. They assert claims of noble blood, spin tales of their courage, and whisper against their comrades.”

“Such men are not fit for command,” Archer said.

“And well I know it,” Tuzza replied. “Yet I have not enough officers as it is.”

“Your men would not serve under Anari officers,” Archer said. It was neither a question or a criticism, but simply a statement of fact.

“No,” Tuzza said. “They would not.”

Archer sat for a moment, as if pondering the dilemma. Twice he made as if to speak, bringing Tuzza forward in his chair, before shaking his head and drifting again into his thoughts. Tuzza could well sympathize, for many long hours had he spent on this same question.

Finally, Archer spoke. “We have already decided that your men will establish a new camp, alongside the Anari.”

“Aye,” Tuzza said. “I will go this afternoon to look at possible sites, and draw up plans.”

“Do not,” Archer said. “Rather, use this as an opportunity to test and select those who would serve as your officers. Simply assemble your men and direct that this be done. Your real leaders will emerge.”

“Yes, they will,” Tuzza said, a smile working its way across his features. “I will see who can talk and who can act, who can say �go and do it thus,’ who will say �follow me,’ and whom the men will follow.”

“And always with an eye toward those who will enlist the aid of their Anari brethren,” Archer said. “For in our time of need, we need to turn to one another.”

“That,” Tuzza said, sighing, “may be a sticking point for some. I need leaders, Lord Archer, and not merely men who will be puppets of the Anari.”

“Certainly,” Archer said. “And you should demand no less. But one need not be a puppet to ask where water may be found, or where wood or stone are at hand for building. There are Anari who still do not trust you and who would lead you astray. You must have leaders who can discern whom they can trust, and enlist their help without giving undue offense to those Anari who would object.”

Tuzza could see for himself the truth in Archer’s words. “The campaign before us will be unlike anything we Bozandari have before conducted. We have never fought beside an ally. We have never needed one.”

“But now you do,” Archer said, nodding. “This will call for leaders who can meld their actions with those of their Anari brethren.”

Tuzza drew a breath. Long had Bozandari command been rooted in bloodlines and patronage. He himself was a minor noble, and a beneficiary of the very system he was now compelled to overhaul. “There are some among my officers and men who will resist and resent any change that does not recognize their heritage. They may resent even more those whose positions remain unchallenged.”

“Such as your own?” Archer asked.

“Precisely,” Tuzza said. “It is not enough for me to direct my men, and then stand above them, testing them. I must put myself to the test as well.”

“Then do so,” Archer said. “For I have no doubt that you will pass this test, and perhaps in the passing of it, restore your own confidence.”

Tuzza shook his head. “No mere test can erase the stain I bear, Lord Archer. Still, there is no other way to prove myself to them. And prove myself I must.”



As Archer left Tuzza’s tent, the problems of the coming war weighed heavily. In its own way, this would be a far more challenging task than those they had faced thus far. Not only must Tuzza find officers who could work with the Anari, but Archer must find Anari officers who could work with the Bozandari. And this promised to be no mean task, especially when one of his chief lieutenants—his longtime companion, Ratha Monabi—was still dark with fury and grief over the death of his brother Giri. Worse, Ratha had watched Giri die, at Tuzza’s own hand.

It was to Ratha’s home that Archer was now going, and he found himself turning over the question of how to broach the topic of Tuzza’s force serving alongside Ratha’s. Ratha was certain to have heard of the events Tess set in motion this morning with her visit to the Bozandari camp. The entire city of Anahar seemed to be abuzz with the news, and the reactions were not wholly positive. Too many Anari had seen their kin enslaved or killed by the Bozandari to forgive easily.

Ratha’s decisions would sway many, Archer knew. And he could not count on a shocking dawn visit by Tess to sway Ratha’s heart, as she had done for the Bozandari. He would have to do this himself, man to man, friend to friend.




Chapter Six


“You cannot ask this of me!” Ratha thundered the words at Archer, his usual deference to the man totally gone. “He killed my brother!”

Archer listened, unmoving, offering no response. Ratha had withdrawn for the telzehten—the ritual grieving period—and had come to the wedding only because custom demanded it. Otherwise he remained in a small tent in the foothills at the edge of the Monabi Tel section of Anahar, alone, staring at the scarred and dented armor that had been Giri’s. Such was not unusual among the Anari. They were a long-lived people for whom death had not been an everyday companion, and a period of communion with the soul of the departed was not only accepted but honorable.

It was in Giri’s tent—pitched on a craggy, windswept hilltop—that the two of them stood now, faced off as if they were enemies, rather than friends of many years. The cold of the unnatural winter beat about them as if it would hammer them to the ground. Neither man yielded an inch, and only Archer spared a fleeting thought for how pleasant Anahar should be at this time of year…except for the machinations of Ardred, he who was called Lord of Chaos.

Ratha was clearly past remembering such things. Grief had rent his spirit and soul, had blinded him to the evil they faced, and had left him a husk filled with nothing but pain and fury.

Before Archer’s unwavering, expressionless stare, however, Ratha’s rage could not stand its ground. Muttering an oath, the Anari stormed out of the tent, not stopping until he stood at the edge of a ravine. Ratha kicked a rock over the edge. The wind soon swallowed the clatter of its fall.

Archer had followed Ratha, and now he spoke. “Your brother was my friend, too, Ratha. And if he died by the sword of Tuzza, he died at the hand of the Enemy that stalks us all, the Enemy that brought this war upon us. Will you forget your people and misdirect your rage?”

“Misdirect?” Ratha swung around and glared at him. “My people have been enslaved by the Bozandari for generations. Would you have me forget all that?”

“You cannot forget. I will never ask that of you.”

“What then? Unlike you, I am a mere mortal, and I have lost the other half of myself to the man you now ask me to trust, to march beside with an army of my kinsmen, into battle with other Bozandari.”

“Aye, ’tis true. If blame you need, then blame me. I and my race created yours, and in that act of hubris sowed the seeds for your enslavement. Blame me, Ratha, for I bear more the stain of Giri’s death than Tuzza ever could.”

Ratha’s head jerked back, almost as if he had been slapped. When at last he spoke, his voice was rough, almost hoarse. “You saved Giri and me from slavery. You made us your friends and companions. Am I to forget that?”

“You may as well, as you are determined to forget the Enemy still before us. As you seem determined to forget that we cannot win this war alone.”

Ratha groaned, a sound of anguish and anger that bounced off the nearby rocks. He appeared about to kick another stone over the edge, but his foot paused midswing, as if he were recollecting the bond between his people and the rock. The Anari, and the Anari alone, could hear the voices in the stone. Because they could hear those voices, they appreciated rock as the truly living thing it was. Kicking that stone as he had earlier was a sin among his kind, and he was not about to repeat it.

Instead, he fell to his knees and picked up one of the larger stones that lay scattered about the ledge, having fallen from higher up. He raised it to his cheek, near his ear, and closed his eyes. Tears ran down his dark face, glistening like ice, and one fell upon the rock he held.

“I am sorry,” he whispered.

The rock he held responded, glowing faintly.

Archer squatted before him. “You see, Ratha? One must grieve, but one must never forget who he is and the duty he owes to those still living.”

Ratha’s black eyes opened slowly, wet with tears. “You would know, my lord,” he said slowly.

“I have had many years to learn. You have had only a handful. Stay for your telzehten. I would not deny you that, and would expect no less from a brother whose bond I shared. But then you must return to us, for our days of calm are short. Rescuers for Tuzza’s army must already be on the way. Tuzza will send out scouts to find out how long we have. But it will not be very long.”

Ratha nodded slowly as he gently set the rock down. It still glowed, as if his touch had brightened its life. He stroked it with one finger, then looked at Archer.

“I will come,” he said. “Soon.”

“That is all I can ask.”

“Stay with me, my lord. As you said, you shared my bond with Giri. Anari share telzehten only with family, and I have none save you.”

Archer shook his head. “I would that I could, my brother. But the Enemy gives me no time to grieve. There is much to be done, and much that only I can do.”

“I understand,” Ratha said quietly.

“But you do have family apart from me,” Archer said. “Your cousin, Cilla, also grieves for Giri, and for you. I have not asked her, but I am certain she would be honored, and heartened, to share telzehten with you.”

“She has other designs,” Ratha said. “Designs for my heart.”

“Aye,” Archer said. “I will not deny that. And I have designs for you as well, for your mind and your skill as a commander. Yet you would share with me and not with her. Whose designs threaten you more?”

Ratha smiled for an instant. “Hers, my lord. The battle you ask of me is one with which I am familiar. The battle she asks…”

“I cannot deny the truth of that, my brother,” Archer said, his face mirroring Ratha’s smile. “The battle she asks risks more than your life. Perhaps it is better that you are fully healed before you face that.”

“I will rejoin you soon, my lord,” Ratha said. “And please tell Cilla that I cannot return until I am whole. She will know of what I speak.”

“I will, my brother. I will.”

Archer rose and left him, picking his way down to where he had left his mount. He hadn’t the heart to tell Ratha that grief never ended, it merely yielded.

For a moment, his own shoulders slumped, as if the weight of his burdens were bending him low. Then he straightened himself, refusing to give in. Despair was a luxury none of them could afford.



At the temple, the three Ilduin walked in a slow circle around the central chamber of the round building. This chamber held the statues of twelve women, presumably the original Ilduin, and it was toward these they looked, as if the statues might somehow tell them where to find their still-missing sisters.

Tess had avoided this chamber since that first visit when she and her sisters had felt the horror of the Ilduin destruction of Dederand. Instead, they had focused their work on the anteroom, with the statues of the gods. It was Sara who had suggested that perhaps Elanor had revealed all that she would, and they should shift their studies to this room. The temple at Anahar was a living being in stone, and this chamber was its heart.

“There must be some of our sisters among the Bozandari,” Sara said, an edge of distaste in her voice. The only ones who liked the Bozandari these days were the Bozandari themselves.

“Of course,” Tess said slowly. “But at present we cannot reach them. We cannot go to Bozandar.”

Cilla spoke. “The two of you could. No one would remark you in Bozandar.”

“Mayhap not,” Tess replied. “But what are we to do? Go from door to door asking if an Ilduin dwells within? I think not.”

She reached out and touched the cool, rainbow-hued stone of the temple wall. “I wish Anahar could sing for them, calling them as she called the Anari….” Her voice trailed off as a thought struck her.

“The stones!” Cilla and Sara said on a single breath.

“Aye!” Eagerly, Tess drew forth the leather pouch she wore always around her neck. Walking to the center of the room, she spilled the stones upon the floor. “We know two of them have fallen under the Enemy’s sway.”

“These,” Sara said. She pointed as she watched two of them roll apart from the others and begin to make their ways across the floor, toward two of the statues. One of the stones was beryl, the other yellow quartz.

The three of them stared dubiously at the remaining nine stones. Cilla reached out, removing the opal, which was Tess’s, the sapphire which was Sara’s, and the emerald which was her own. That left amethyst, ruby, carnelian, topaz, garnet, jade and turquoise. Those, too, then began to roll across the floor, drawn by an unseen force.

“Should we do this?” Sara asked, her voice hushed. “We don’t know how many may belong to Ardred.”

“Nor do we want Ardred to know we are summoning them,” Tess pointed out. “Although I am not certain we can avoid it. He has Ilduin serving him.”

“And we know at least two of them,” Cilla said, pointing to the two stones that had begun to roll toward their statues before turning away from them and coming to rest near each other. The other stones had seemingly scattered themselves around the room.

Cilla continued, “Even so, Ardred’s Ilduin will know we are doing something. How can they not? We seem to be joined tightly to one another, all twelve, in some way.”

“And those who have no notion that they are Ilduin might not even understand the contact,” Sara said.

Tess had fallen silent as she stared at the stones. For a time, no sound passed among the women. “There is a riddle here,” she said finally. She placed her stone onto the floor. “Place down your stones, sisters.”

The three stones rolled across the floor, coming to rest in a tight cluster, apart from the others.

Tess’s brow furrowed. “It is as if they mimic where we are in the world. Almost as if they form a map.”

Tess found her mind drifting back to a time before she inhabited this world, to lessons she had studied. How to find her way across a landscape with the barest of tools. She could not pull the whole of the memory into focus, and yet she knew that it would help her resolve this mystery.

“If they are a map, there are no landmarks,” Sara said, looking at the floor. She pointed to the cluster of their three stones. “We know we are there, but where is that in relation to anywhere else?”

“We need to know where Ardred is,” Tess said. “That will give us an orientation, and perhaps even a scale.”

Cilla looked at her strangely. “You speak of things I do not know, sister.”

“And I hardly remember them myself,” Tess said. “It angers me that my own past must bear on our journey, and yet most of it lies behind a veil, unknown to me.”

“But not all,” Sara said. “You spoke of, what was it, orientation and scale. What are they?”

Tess closed her eyes for a moment, hoping that perhaps this past would emerge fully formed, and yet it remained clouded in impenetrable mist. Still, she had spoken the words, and she knew their meaning.

“A map must give us direction and distance,” she said. “If we know the orientation of a map, we know which way to walk to reach a destination. If we know the scale of a map, we know how many days it will take to get there.”

Tess pointed to the three stones that represented them and then to a looser cluster of four others. “If the stones are indeed a map, four of our sisters live near one another, there. But we don’t know what direction to walk in order to reach them, nor how far away they might be.”

“You said that if we knew where Ardred is, we could know this,” Cilla said, pointing to the beryl and quartz stones. “You think those two will be with him?”

“I would be surprised if they were not,” Tess said. “He relies on the power of the Ilduin. He must keep them near at hand, lest he find himself caught without them.”

“But surely he cannot control the whole of his forces with only two Ilduin,” Sara said.

“No,” Tess agreed. “He cannot. Glassidor’s hive was small by comparison to the Enemy’s. The Enemy would reach to his other Ilduin through the two he keeps at hand.”

The three women stared down at the scattered stones, trying to find some clue that would give them direction. Presently, Tess began to walk around them, viewing them from all directions, seeking any hint they might give her. Hoping the arrangement would speak to her on some level.

“All we need,” she said slowly, “is one other point of reference. If we knew where just one of these Ilduin was located, other than ourselves, the map would become clear.”

Cilla pointed. “These four that are near one another. Surely they must be in a large city? Bozandar, perhaps?”

Sara answered. “Mayhap. Or mayhap they have been drawn together by him whom we fight.”

“Aye, that concerns me,” said Tess slowly. “But they may also have come together as we have, finding one another by chance as they seek to fight the Evil One.”

“Even so,” Cilla said, “they must be from different bloodlines, as we are. Four such women, together in one place, speaks of a city where people gather from all over. Surely Bozandar is such a city.”

“I agree,” Tess said. “It is likely that they are in and around Bozandar. But we must assume that at least one of them is in the Enemy’s thrall. He could not master the Bozandari otherwise.”

“Aye,” Sara said. “And perhaps all four.”

Tess nodded. “We must proceed with caution, then. But has this not been our watchword since we began this journey?”

“I would never approach Bozandar otherwise,” Cilla said. “But I see no choice.”

Tess nodded, her face drawn. I see no choice. That had been her life for too long.




Chapter Seven


Tuzza was surprised, both at the progress that had been made in constructing his army’s camp and in the men who had risen to the forefront in the process. Some were experienced officers who had shown themselves willing to follow Tuzza’s lead in stepping in to share the manual labor, and in reaching out to the Anari for help. But some were men he would never have known by name, but for their exceptional performance in this exercise.

One such man stood before him now. Denza Grundan was a mere filemark, serving his second term of conscription. By all accounts, Grundan was a capable and brave soldier, well skilled and respected by the men of his file. He was also one-quarter Anari.

Given his heritage, and it was apparent from his deep, burnished brown features, his accomplishments shone even brighter.

Even Grundan’s rearmark had stepped out of the way over the last week, content to let Grundan organize the accommodations for not only his own file, but the entire company. What at first had seemed like sensible leadership had become something else when Tuzza had asked after the rearmark, and after some searching had found him drunk in his tent. That, combined with the rearmark’s reputation among his men and his fellow junior officers, had made Tuzza’s present decision an easy one. If Tuzza was to rebuild his command, this was an ideal way to begin.

Tuzza stood and spoke with a voice that would have rung through the company camp, even if the company had not been formed in ranks before him. “Filemark Denza Grundan, you have excelled in your duties, demonstrating not only strength of mind and will but also humility and attention to the needs of your men in the highest tradition of the Bozandari legions. Your character and commitment are above reproach. It is for this reason that I now appoint you a Rearmark, an officer in this legion from this time forward. Will you kneel and accept the oath of commissioning?”

“Aye, my lord,” Grundan said, kneeling and presenting his sword to Tuzza.

Had this ceremony occurred in other times, Tuzza would have asked Grundan to swear fealty to the emperor. In the present circumstances, Tuzza had rewritten the oath of commissioning.

“Do you swear by your life to serve these your men with your full measure of loyalty and honor, to obey all lawful commands of your seniors, to devote your whole mind and strength to your duties, and to respect and bear upon yourself the proud history and traditions of the Bozandari legionnaires and our Anari brethren?”

“Aye, my lord,” Grundan said, “upon my honor and my life itself, I swear myself thus.”

Tuzza smiled. “Then stand, Rearmark Grundan, and receive your company.”

Grundan stood and pivoted smartly, sheathing his sword and holding out his hands to receive the company’s battle standard. It was not the spotless pennant that had been carried out of Bozandar months ago. It was like Tuzza’s legion, tattered and soiled by the campaign, save for the radiant image of the white wolf, which had been stitched into the pennant by one of the men. Tuzza felt tears in his eyes. This company standard reflected the trials these men had borne, their defeat, and their hope of redemption under their new allegiance to the Weaver.

As Grundan grasped the staff that bore the standard and lifted it above his head, the men erupted in a cheer. In another time, in another legion, it would have been no more than a formality, a change-of-command ceremony, little noticed and less remembered. At this time, in this legion, it was so much more. It was the start of a new tradition, a beacon of hope to those with the talent and commitment to serve with honor, and a warning to those who thought their status guaranteed by patronage.

“For the Snow Wolf!” Grundan cried.

“For the Snow Wolf!” his men replied.



The word of Grundan’s appointment spread quickly, and in the days that followed, as Tuzza visited other units, he found that each had added a snow wolf—the prophesied companion of the Weaver—to its pennant.

“Your men speak of themselves as the Snow Wolves,” Jenah Gewindi said, walking beside Tuzza.

Jenah, alongside Ratha and Giri Monabi, had been one of Archer’s three chief lieutenants in the campaign against Tuzza’s men. Giri had fallen in the battle of the canyon, and his brother Ratha was still observing telzehten. This left Jenah as the only Anari commander on hand to forge a command coalition with the Bozandari, and at Archer’s order he had spent the past two days with Tuzza in the Bozandari camp, observing their training and the appointment of new officers as needed.

“Yes,” Tuzza said. “It began with the commissioning of one of your brethren. I have since been told that it was the decision of Rearmark Grundan and two of his fellow filemarks to add the Snow Wolf to their pennant. But it has served to rally my men, to give them a new sense of shared identity.”

Jenah nodded. “This is important, Topmark. Even now there is talk of doing the same among the Anari.”

“Your men would share the symbol of a Bozandari legion?” Tuzza asked, incredulous.

“Perhaps,” Jenah said. “Perhaps we both share a symbol of and allegiance to something greater than either of our peoples. It is this that I have suggested, when I have been asked for my view on the issue.”

“Very politic,” Tuzza said, smiling.

“An alliance cannot be formed without such,” Jenah said with a faint shrug. “My people are no more eager to fight beside yours than your men are to fight beside us. Yet necessity commands it, and it falls upon men like us to make it possible.”

“How many are you?” Tuzza asked. “We never knew, for certain, during the campaign past.”

“We were never more than five thousand under sword, and fewer still in the end,” Jenah said.

“Between us we are barely a legion strong,” Tuzza said, his brow furrowed.

“Perhaps,” Jenah said. “But even if we were thrice thus, we could not count on weight of numbers in the march to Bozandar. And in our very weakness may lay strength.”

“How so?” Tuzza asked.

Jenah smiled. “Consider how your emperor would respond if three legions marched out of Anahar.”

“That would seem nothing less than an invasion,” Tuzza said, nodding. “They would see no option but battle.”

“Precisely,” Jenah said. “But an understrength legion, composed of Bozandari and Anari marching side by side. That can seem like a peace envoy.”

“Let us hope,” Tuzza said. “My men have no desire to slay their brethren. However committed they may be to the Weaver, to lift swords against men they have known and fought beside before would be very difficult.”

“Aye,” Jenah said. “Thus it would be for Anari also. No, our strength will lie not in numbers, but in the gifts of our Ilduin, and perhaps your own gifted tongue.”

Tuzza looked at Jenah. “If our future rests upon my gift for clever speech, I fear we are all in graver danger than I knew.”

“It will come to all of us to give what we can,” Jenah said. “Whether that will be enough rests on shoulders larger than our own.”



Tess sat beside an icy stream, her feet bare and pink in the cold. The need to escape to quiet and privacy had driven her into the mountains by herself. She could still see Anahar’s beauty below, so she was in no danger of becoming lost. But the hike had made her feet tender, since it appeared her new boots were better made for riding than walking. She had soaked them in the stream until she could bear the frigid water no more.

As she turned her ankle to one side, she noted again the tattoo of the white rose, still as fresh-looking as if it had been done within the past year or two. How did she know that about tattoos?

For a moment, she closed her eyes, reaching for the information, but as always when she sought her past, it was as if the doors closed even more impenetrably. A small sigh escaped her, and she shivered a bit as the icy breeze caressed her feet. She should put her boots on again, before her bare feet sucked out all the warmth that her woolen cloak preserved.

But instead she looked again at the tattoo, knowing in some unreachable part of herself that it was more than a pretty decoration. It said something about her past, about who she was. Perhaps it even said something about her destiny.

Gingerly she poked a hand out from the shelter of her cloak and touched it. Within, she felt no reaction to it at all. At this moment, it was nothing but a pretty little bit of folly.

But it was her only true link with her past, that and the memory of holding her dying mother in her arms, a memory that Elanor had returned to her. An unhappy, unwanted, inexplicable memory. It told her almost nothing, and she had a crying need to know something.

If she was a pawn of the gods, and it appeared she was, then why must she take every action in blindness? Why was she permitted to know little of any real use?

Her own powers, powers that had been steadily revealing themselves, terrified her. If she was capable of so much, ’twould be better for everyone if she knew how to control this wild talent. Instead she discovered her abilities in moments of dire need, and so far as she could tell, other than healing, she had little say in what she did.

She lifted her fingers from the tattoo and studied it for another few seconds, then sighed and pulled her white leather boots on again.

For some reason, nearly every piece of serviceable clothing she owned, from the very first clothes given to her by Sara so long ago at the Whitewater Inn, was white. When she had asked the bootmaker to make her a fresh pair, he had made them white. She was quite certain she had not asked for that. The same had happened with every other item that she requested.

A little smile curled one corner of her mouth. Only her gown for the wedding had been a different color, and now that the wedding was past, she had no excuse to wear it. It was as if some silent conspiracy existed, insisting she wear only the color of the white wolves, the White Lady, the Weaver.

Shod once again, her feet numbed enough that she did not feel the mild irritation of her new boots, she resumed her hike, now heading toward Anahar. The quiet and solitude had allowed her to relax, a luxury she rarely knew. For a little while she had stopped worrying at the temple for more information, she had escaped councils of war, and the cacophony of voices that accompanied the crowding of the city of Anahar by Anari summoned from far and wide to battle.

A snatch of music danced across her mind, and she recalled the day that Anahar had sung. The rainbow-hued city had gleamed from within its every stone as the music had emerged from them, sending out a call to every Anari, a call that could be heard nearby with the ears, but elsewhere with the heart, according to the Anari.

And the Anari had come from far and wide, dropping every task to answer the summons. They had become the army that had defeated Tuzza’s legion.

Now Tess wondered if Anahar would sing again, for it seemed they were about to march again, this time toward Bozandar.

The chill that passed through her then had nothing to do with the weather. She could not imagine that the remains of the Anari army, even allied with the remnants of Tuzza’s legion, could withstand the might of Bozandar, be it only one fresh legion strong.

Yet march they must, for more than their own lives hung in the balance. It was a somber, sober burden, one which weighed more heavily with each step toward the city.

Again the snatch of music danced across her mind, as if trying to tell her something, but before she could reach for its meaning, it was gone again.

Perhaps Anahar was calling her, telling her it was time. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she realized this was not Anahar calling her. No, this was something else, something far darker than Anahar could ever be, even in the silence of the blackest night.

Yes, Tess. You will come. But not for their sake. You will come for me!

Tess slammed down the walls within her mind, even as she began to run toward the city. Blisters bedamned. She knew she had not the strength to withstand this attack alone. She needed her sisters.

She needed them now.



Archer had been looking for Tess, to confer with her about the army’s departure. She was, whether she knew it or not, the only true unifying point for the two groups who would march toward Bozandar. Not even his own birthright, Firstborn Son to Firstborn King, would unify in the way the Lady Tess’s mere presence seemed to.

Nor did he begrudge her that, though he still wondered about her origins. For his part, he had no desire to be the rallying point for what was to come. He would simply do his duty and use his expertise as needed. Having once heard his name used as a rallying cry, and having seen what followed, he never wanted to hear it that way again.

’Twas then that he spied Tess hurrying out of the wood at the far end of town. The way she was racing and stumbling concerned him, and he spurred his mount toward her, his heart suddenly hammering.

When he reached her, he saw terror on her face. He slipped at once from his saddle and reached for her, swinging his cloak around her to cover her even as he assumed a protective stance, hand on his sword hilt.

“Are you pursued?” he demanded roughly. “Has someone hurt you?”

“No…no…”

He relaxed, but only a little, as he felt a shudder rip through her.

“It’s him,” she whispered hoarsely. “It’s him.”

“Him?” In the deepest part of his heart he knew who she meant, but he didn’t want to accept it.

“Him,” she whispered again, as if afraid to speak his name. “I feel him again. He is near in my thoughts, his touch so cold…colder than ice. He wants me.”

At once he wrapped his other arm around her, as if he could shield her from the assault. As if anything could. “Tess,” he said. “Tess…” It was all he could say. He had no idea how an Ilduin might fight such an assault on her mind. No idea how to protect her. All he could do was give her the sound of his voice and the touch of his arms for her to cling to lest she be swept away.

She shuddered against him, as if from great cold or great effort. “He knows,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Knows what?”

“He knows you are here. He knows we are coming. And he wants me.”

He hesitated only a moment, then with one easy movement lifted her onto his saddle. An instant later he was behind her and they galloped toward the city.

“Take me to my sisters,” Tess begged. “He wants all of the Ilduin! And none of us can withstand him alone.”

I could have, Archer thought grimly as his mount devoured the distance in hungry strides. He had had countless opportunities to deal with Ardred, when they were children or even young men, before the evil had taken root and transformed his brother into his enemy. He had missed them all. But not again. I could have, and this time, I will.




Chapter Eight


Ratha looked at Cilla, uncertain of what to say. She had been with him for two days now, though she had yet to speak a word beyond their brief opening greeting. Nor had he. The initial stage of the telzehten was observed in silence, apart from the customary prayers, and in silence they had remained. But now they had completed that stage, and were supposed to move on to the celebration of a life well lived. And while Ratha knew his brother had lived life well, he also knew that in the end of Giri’s days, an awful bloodlust had consumed him.

Worse, Ratha knew that he, too, had fallen victim to that bloodlust before his sojourn in the desert, and now was perilously close to succumbing again. To openly discuss these things risked falling into the pit that yawned beneath him like a gaping maw. And yet he knew he must face his demons eventually whether alone or not.

Even so, his tongue felt leaden in his mouth, and the concerns he most needed to share were the very things of which he must not speak.

Still, as the closest blood relative, it fell upon Ratha to speak first. At last the silence grew too oppressive to bear, and he drew a breath. “Giri was a man of honor.”

“Aye, cousin,” Cilla said quietly.

“More than once did he risk his life for those whom he loved, and in the end he gave his life for the freedom of the Anari,” Ratha continued.

Cilla nodded. “He spared nothing.”

“Not even his own soul,” Ratha said, tears forming in his eyes. “I have prayed that the gods will forgive him for what he became.”

“He became hardened,” Cilla said gently. “War is a cruel undertaking, cousin.”

“That it is,” Ratha said. “Perhaps if we Anari had been more suited for it…”

“I fear that no one can be truly suited for it,” she replied. “Or perhaps that no one should. I fear that any people truly suited to war would be too cruel and horrible to bear imagining.”

“Perhaps that is true.”

Cilla let a moment pass before speaking. “Giri was a man of laughter.”

“Oh, yes,” Ratha said. “And some of the stories he told…I could not repeat in the presence of a woman, not even my cousin.”

Cilla smiled. “Of that I am certain. There was nothing about which Giri could not laugh, even those things at which most of us would blush.”

Ratha closed his eyes, recalling the long days riding with Archer, when he and Giri had often passed the time with jokes and songs.

“He liked to tell a story of a woman who was out in the field gathering wheat when she came upon a red desert adder. The woman asked of the adder, �Why do you have fangs, and venom that kills?’ The adder replied, �It is only to defend myself, or to kill prey that I may eat.’ The woman was unconvinced, and said, �I would never use venom to defend myself!’ The adder simply smiled. �Why must you lie, woman? For I have heard you speak to your husband!’”

Cilla laughed, a rich, hearty laugh that seemed to unlock something within Ratha. His own laughter and tears burst forth in equal measure, each riding upon the waves of Cilla’s laughter, but continuing long after as he recalled the times that he and Giri had combined to make even Archer turn red and cover his mouth.

This was the Giri that Ratha could celebrate. The brother who, no matter how long the days or how rocky the journey, could bring even the stones to laugh. The brother who had hidden pebbles in Archer’s boots, so tiny and placed so well that with every step Archer felt a tickle between his toes.

It had taken Archer half a day to find the pebbles, and three days more to plot his revenge on Giri, carefully weaving a string of nettles into Giri’s breeches that left him hopping and howling until he could find and break open a soothing reed.

For his part, Ratha had laughed along with Archer at his brother’s discomfort, for such were the just desserts of the prank Giri had played, and he knew the nettles were as harmless as the pebbles Giri had employed for his own amusement.

As he told Cilla of these times, and many others besides, her peals of laughter echoed through the rocks below, and the stones themselves seemed to respond with a quiet glow that spoke their approval. She told him of one of her cousins who had been the happy, if unsatisfied, host of Giri’s first clumsy kiss. Her description, doubtless embellished in the telling, left Ratha holding his sides and wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Giri was a gift to us all,” Ratha finally said, when he could catch his breath.

“Yes, he was,” Cilla said. “And whatever he became, dear cousin, he became it only because he never lived by half measures.”

Ratha nodded. “That he did not. Whatever he was, in whatever moment he lived, he lived it fully. And if he lived war no less fully than he lived all else, I pray he did so not from malice but from the same completeness with which he gave every day of his life.”

Cilla reached out and took his hand. “If we can see him thus, my cousin, how could any just and merciful god not see him likewise?”

Ratha did not withdraw his hand, for in that simple touch he felt the beginning of something he would not have imagined possible only days ago. He felt the beginning of healing.

“I will always miss him,” Ratha said.

“As will I,” Cilla said. “But he lives on in our hearts, and in our memories. And I dare say with surety that he lives on beyond the veil, and even now plots his mischief with the gods.”

“If that be,” Ratha said, “then I pity the gods.”

“Share a meal with me, cousin,” Cilla said. “You have fasted enough.”

Something in the quietness of her voice, in the softness of her touch, in the laughter they had shared, and even more, in her having come to share his grief, reached through the anguish that had plagued his soul from the moment he had seen Giri fall. To spend time alone was an honorable thing. But to return to his people, and his duty, was no less honorable, and all the more so in this time of need.

“Yes, cousin,” he said. “Let us return to Anahar and eat together. For duty weighs upon us both, and to duty we must return. But first let us feast in honor of Giri.”

“Long have I waited to hear those words,” Cilla said, rising with him.

“And others that I cannot yet say,” Ratha added, a wry smile on his face.

Cilla laughed. “Tease me not, cousin! Come, strike your tent before I smite your heart!”

Ratha joined in the laughter as they made their way back to Anahar.

Many days and hours of sorrow still lay ahead, but a glimmer of acceptance had at last eased Ratha’s heart.



It was terrible, thought Tess, to rip Sara from the arms of her groom yet again, but it could not be avoided. Come, she cried to her sister in her mind. Come to the temple at once and bring Cilla!

The answer was not one of words, but one of feeling. She felt Sara’s startlement, followed by a burst of fear. Then: Cilla is in the mountains, with Ratha.

Then summon her now!

Archer continued his gallop through the streets of Anahar, his mount’s hooves striking fire from the cobbles, though it was forbidden to ride this way in the city. As people scattered before them, they were recognized, and their haste awoke fear.

He drew his steed to a skittering halt in the square before the temple. “I will find your sisters,” he said as he slid down from the saddle, then set Tess on her own feet.

“I summoned Sara already. She says Cilla is still with Ratha, but she will call for her to come.”

“Then Cilla will find her way back swiftly.” For a moment he looked deep into her eyes while giving a squeeze to her upper arms. “Fight hard, my lady. I will seek what help I may find.”

Inside the temple, Tess found no comfort, but then comfort had been a stranger to her since wakening alone in this land. Nor had the temple itself ever offered her anything beyond grief and warnings of her destiny.

Still, thinking the early Ilduin who had directed and supervised the construction of this place might have had protection in mind as well as teaching, she sought the very center of it, the very heart of the temple. There she sat on the stone floor and waited.

Whether her fear and anger had driven him back, or whether the temple provided psychic shelter, Tess could no longer feel the oily, icy touch in her mind, nor hear the snatches of music that had heralded it.

She closed her eyes, chilled to the bone from her time outside, although the winter’s fury seemed unable to penetrate these walls. The music, she thought. The music. Had it been meant to enchant her? To open a way to her deepest mind? Or had it been something other?

It had certainly been beautiful. As beautiful as the singing of Anahar. Hadn’t Archer once said that his brother had been fair and beautiful, and had used that beauty to bring about strife?

Her mind whirled in circles, unable to settle on any particular thing, almost as if she feared that if her thoughts slowed he might find his way in again. Where was Sara? And why could she not warm up, even when every part of her was burrowed into her cloak?

She thought of a fire, thought how nice it would be to be sitting before one right now. The flames seemed to dance before her eyes, and almost as if by magic, she felt the heat of them stinging her cold cheeks.

Her eyes popped open and she gasped. Before her, on the stone floor with no fuel to feed it, a fire burned, emitting heat. Did she need only to visualize something to have it occur? The thought terrified her.

But then she saw Sara sitting across from her on the other side of the fire. How long had she been distracted? How had Sara come without being heard?

Fearing that she was imagining everything, she opened her mouth to speak Sara’s name, when a chant began to emerge from the shadows around the fire. Tess’s head snapped up, and all of a sudden she saw the clan mothers, every one of them, in a circle around the fire and the two Ilduin. Their hands were joined as if to make an unbroken ring, and they intoned a prayer that sounded as if it were as old as time, chanting words Tess could not understand.

Sara smiled at her. “Cilla is on her way. She will be here soon. Archer said the Enemy is assaulting you.”

Tess nodded jerkily. She felt stiff, as if she had been sitting here for hours, not just minutes. But given what she saw around her, she must have dozed off…or gone somewhere else for a time. Some place she could not now remember. Too much time had elapsed.

She drew a frightened breath. Was she still losing her memory? Was she about to forget these past months as she had forgotten her earlier life? The terror that pierced her then had no equal.

How could she go forward if she could not trust her mind not to forget?

All of sudden, Sara slipped into her mind. He is attacking you now, sister. He seeks to make you doubt yourself.

He was certainly succeeding, Tess thought.

If you doubt yourself, he will find you easier prey. Seek your strength.

What strength? She felt cold, frightened and very much alone, as alone and frightened as when she had wakened among the gore of the slaughtered caravan.

Still she felt no touch in her mind. That was a good thing, because if there was anything she was certain of, it was that the Enemy wouldn’t be able to reside within her mind without being detected. His presence was too alien to be missed, as recognizable as a fingerprint.

A fingerprint? Where had that come from?

For an instant she feared she might simply dissolve into hopeless tears, unable to cope any longer with the weight of things forgotten and the weight of things to come.

But then her spine stiffened, and she drove away the despairing thoughts. Those, she thought angrily, would only serve him.

A whisper passed through the room, and the circle of clan mothers parted, allowing Cilla to enter. She looked cold and windblown, but in her hands she carried a tray of food.

“I am sorry that I was delayed, sister, but tradition dictated that Ratha and I feast in Giri’s honor,” she said, placing the tray between Sara and Tess. Then she squeezed Tess’s shoulder. “I ate quickly and brought the rest for you. Eat and rest, sister. You are guarded now.”

Tess looked around at the ring of aged faces, at her two Ilduin sisters, and finally understood.

She was not alone.




Chapter Nine


Archer joined Jenah and Tuzza in the large tent that served as a temporary headquarters for both armies. As it was set on neutral ground between the two camps, no one could see a purpose in raising a building here yet, because they were planning to march very soon. The work on a camp and buildings for the Bozandari had been born of an effort to establish a sense of purpose and permanence for the erstwhile captives, and to help build relationships between them and the Anari.

So far there had been few problems. It had helped greatly when the Anari army had sprouted banners sporting the white wolf as well. Just as helpful had been the amazing gifts of the Anari stoneworkers who assisted their former foes in building the camp.

But now the real dangers approached, ones that might not be so easily solved. Would Tuzza’s men be able to stand against another Bozandari legion if necessary? Or would they lay down their swords?

No one could say for certain, oaths aside. All had sworn fealty to Tess, but that did not necessarily mean they would kill their own comrades-in-arms.

Tuzza grew more uneasy about the difficulties ahead with each passing day. So did Jenah, who often had a nightmare vision of the Bozandari troops laying down their weapons, leaving the Anari who marched beside them to be slaughtered and taken into slavery. Both men were wary, even as the friendship between them appeared to grow.

Archer was acutely aware of the tensions, though he seldom mentioned them. “Time,” he had said to both Jenah and Tuzza. “Time is needed. This is all new to our peoples. We must gently carry them along with us for as long as we possibly can.”

But tonight, as he stood at the fore of the tent beside Tuzza and Jenah, he noted that the Anari and Bozandari officers stood apart from one another, almost as if there were an invisible wall between them. Denza Grundan, the quarter-Anari soldier who had recently been promoted to rearmark, alone stood between them like a bridge. Archer was relieved to note that neither side seemed bothered by his presence so near them.

When everyone had settled, Tuzza stepped to the fore and held up his hand. “The time approaches,” he said. “We have received word from both Anari and Bozandari scouts.” He paused then, weighing the import of his words. He paused to choose more carefully. “Let me say that otherwise. Our scouts have returned with information.”

Throughout the tent, heads nodded, noting the distinction he was making. Faces, however, offered no clue as to what lay behind them.

“A legion has marched into Anari lands presumably to rescue us.” This with a nod toward the Bozandari officers. “We must go forth to meet them, but we must try at all costs to meet them peacefully.”

Murmurs of agreement from the light-skinned officers, no sound whatever from the dark-hued faces of the Anari.

Jenah stepped forward then and looked directly at his fellow Anari. “The same applies to us all. We must win allies, not alienate them. All of us face a threat bigger than our past problems. We face a threat to our entire world, as my lord Annuvil can well tell you.”

“Annuvil…” The whisper passed among the Bozandari who had not yet heard Archer’s true identity. The Anari, who had long known, remained stoic. Archer, however, did not speak. Standing with his arms folded, he merely lowered his head and looked downward.

Finally, someone called out, “Where is the lady? It is to her that we have sworn our fealty.”

Only then did Archer lift his head. “She is at the temple,” he said heavily. “The Enemy assaults her. Thus, her sister Ilduin stand guard at her side, as do the clan mothers.”

The silence grew profound at that, and men shifted uneasily.

Archer tilted his head a little to one side and scanned all the faces before him with his gray eyes. “I am sorry,” he said, “that it has come to this. And yet, awful though the days ahead may be, none of you ever would have been born had not we Firstborn made so many mistakes. Learn from our sins. Do not repeat them.”

After a few moments during which men murmured and then stilled, Tuzza spoke again. “From the banners our scouts have observed, it is my cousin Alezzi who comes to us. He is a good man, my cousin, and close to my heart. If for no other reason, we must do all we can to avoid a clash. I will speak with him.”

A Bozandari officer called out, “Are you certain you can persuade him to join us, Topmark?”

“I must,” Tuzza answered simply. “I must. Still, we have but tomorrow to complete our exercise, and not even all of the one day. We do not want to fight, but we will have to when we find Ardred’s force, if not before. Anari and Bozandari must be able to fight together, or his army will defeat us in detail.”

“And this will be difficult,” Jenah said, continuing their prepared remarks. “We Anari prefer night action. It caused confusion among you, which multiplied our numbers.”

“The Anari never had even a full legion arrayed against us. And the column that harassed us on our march was less than one thousand strong,” Tuzza said. Murmurs of surprise spread through the Bozandari officers, but he silenced them with an upraised hand. “It is true. The harassing column steered us into that canyon, where we could not deploy our full strength and would be forced to frontally assault their prepared defenses.”

The memory of that bitter defeat darkened their faces. Archer could see that this could quickly transform into something else: resentment of the Anari who had defeated them, and the commander who had led them into that defeat.

“However, remember that the Anari had many advantages in that campaign,” Archer said.

“This is true,” Jenah said. “We had Ilduin to help our communications, and we were fighting in our own lands, among the rocky hills and mountains. It was not difficult to find terrain that favored us, and Topmark Tuzza had few choices as to his route of advance. While we will still have Ilduin among us in the next campaign, our Enemy will as well. And we will not be fighting in Anari lands, but in the open spaces of the Deder desert. That which we have done before will not avail us twice.”

This seemed to mollify the Bozandari somewhat.

“Our tactics are also different,” Tuzza continued. “The Anari threshing lines are better suited for attacking an enemy. They maneuver more quickly than we do, but the threshing line also gives way to exhaustion more quickly. Our tactics are more stable in defense, and if we are less mobile in attack, we can sustain the action longer.”

“Thus,” Jenah said, “our exercises will seek to take advantage of our differences. We will cooperate as hammer and anvil. The Bozandari, more stable and resilient, will be the anvil. Anari mobility will provide the hammer.”

“Is that not the role of cavalry?” Grundan asked.

“Aye, Rearmark,” Tuzza said, “if we had it. We do not. What few horses we have must be used in draft. But our Anari brothers can move as swiftly on foot as mounted cavalry.” He pointed to the map they would use for the exercise. “The Bozandari must fix the Enemy in place, and apply constant pressure to maintain his focus and wear down his strength. The Anari must strike him from the rear, crushing him against us. This makes the best use of our respective strengths.”

“This plan of battle calls for great coordination,” Archer said, seeing the doubts reflected in the officers of both armies. “Each arm must trust the other. The Anari must trust the Bozandari to be strong and steady in their role as anvil. The Bozandari must trust that the Anari hammer will strike, at the right time and with sufficient force to shatter the Enemy before the Enemy’s pressure is too much to bear.”

“And,” Jenah said, “we must train to strike at dusk, rather than at dawn. The Bozandari will deploy and move to contact in the final hour of daylight, while the Anari deliver our blow in darkness.”

Tuzza again held up a hand to quiet the murmuring among his officers. “I am well aware that we are used to giving battle in the morning, when our men are more rested. We must change our habits, pausing on the march so that our men have time to rest and eat. This will be difficult, but we will have many days to practice the new ways along the road to Bozandar.”

“In this way,” Archer concluded, “we will strike the Enemy when he is tired, ready to make camp and prepare his supper. We preserve the greatest strengths of each of our proud traditions, and forge a new tradition.”

Archer lifted his mug, and Tuzza and Jenah did likewise. Their officers took their lead.

“To the Snow Wolves!” Archer said.

“To the Snow Wolves!” the men replied.



Ras Lutte watched his men drill with a growing sense of dismay. Lord Ardred’s army—a collection of brigands, thieves and rogues—was proving to be a much greater challenge than any he had faced in the service of Bozandar. Ardred could control them as a hive, but Lutte knew that no mere swarm would survive in battle against even a small force of well-trained men. That had been made clear in Lorense, when scores of Lantav Glassidor’s men had fallen to Ardred’s brother and two Anari slaves.

Lutte would have much preferred a proper army, comprised of trained, disciplined men who would stand by one another and continue to perform their duties under the harshest of conditions. But men built of such stern stuff were far more difficult for Ardred to bend to his will.

Thus Lutte found himself at the helm of what was little better than a mob. His officers were a mixed bag, a handful of other Bozandari who had fallen from favor like himself and the rest nothing more than the strongest and the cruelest, those willing to murder rivals and control their men by force of terror. Such men enjoyed giving orders, but were ill-suited to taking them.

Worse, men like these were the least affected by the witchcraft of Ardred’s enslaved Ilduin. Lutte could hope for little more than to point these men in the direction of an enemy, fire their hearts with the prospect of looted treasure, and release them as one would a pack of wild and hungry dogs.

No, he could count on one hand the number of officers he could rely on to rally their men after a local defeat, or reform them as they plundered an enemy camp, and offer a cohesive unit that was prepared to return to action. Men he had in abundance, for there were many who had bristled under Bozandari or any other rule. But men without leaders were little more than grist to be ground down and scattered in the winds of battle.

Given the force at his disposal, Lutte’s options were limited. He could not hope to conduct complex maneuvers, and most of his units were little more than arrows in a quiver. He could aim them, draw the bow and loose them. After that, he must consider them spent. The handful of comparatively reliable units he would keep in the rear, both to preserve his greatest strength and to act as a bulwark against those in front who might otherwise flee.

Battle, he decided, would be much like a hand pushing forward piles of sand, with his more skilled officers the fingers and the rest a mass to be pressed forward against the desired target. Some of that sand would inevitably slip through those fingers, and Lutte knew he must discount his numbers accordingly. Once the sand had worn down the Enemy’s line, Lutte would look for opportunities to use the fingers to punch through and deliver the critical blows.

These were hardly the elegant, precise tactics he had learned in the academy. They were little more than the application of brute force. He would have to depend on Ardred and his witches to sustain the army’s mettle, and his own observation and timing to transform the crude cudgel into a dagger to the Enemy’s heart.

It was not a proper way to make war. Lutte saw little hope that his men could withstand a determined assault by Bozandari legions, let alone deliver a riposte that would deliver into Lutte’s hand the imperial scepter his lord had promised. For that to happen, the Bozandari must be divided, scattered, their allegiances torn, their officers pitted against one another.

Certainly there were rivalries aplenty among both the imperial court and the officer corps. The task of fueling those rivalries fell upon Ardred’s spies and minions in Bozandar. If they were equal to that challenge, then Lutte would be equal to the challenge on the battlefield.

And he would be Emperor of Bozandar.




Chapter Ten


Ratha carefully rolled Giri’s sword in the bedroll Giri had carried on campaign, and tucked it within his own pack. He could not have said why, save that it felt as if the sword were his last connection to his brother. He felt a presence behind him, and turned to see Tom standing in the doorway.

“Welcome back,” Tom said quietly.

“And my blessings on your marriage,” Ratha replied. “I am sorry that I could not share more at the wedding.”

Tom extended his hand, and Ratha grasped it. “There is nothing to forgive, my friend. Sara and I were honored that you interrupted telzehten to attend. She and Cilla are with Tess at the temple now. Archer and Jenah are preparing for tomorrow’s maneuvers, and Erkiah seems to need more rest with each passing day.”

“And so you came to me,” Ratha said.

Tom nodded. “I would have come regardless. I sense there is much that we can learn from each other.”

Ratha smiled. “I am no prophet, Tom Downey.”

“Perhaps not,” Tom said. “But you can be much more than a mere prophet. You can be a priest.”

Ratha paused for a moment, then laughed. “Unless much has changed since last I undressed, I am not eligible to join the ranks of the priesthood. Or have you forgotten that all Anari priests are women?”

“I have not,” Tom said. “But not all priests serve at the temple. Your women, bless them, know less of war than you. And in these ill times, the fate of the Anari, indeed the fate of the world, lies on the field of battle. But the war will end, my friend. And what then?”

“If we are defeated, nothing,” Ratha said.

Tom nodded. “Aye, but if we are not? Must there not be those who can create peace in hearts hardened for war? Who can be among men who have shed blood, who have swum in anger and fear, and coax them to the shores of forgiveness and hope? Your men have followed you into battle, Ratha Monabi. More will follow you into battle again. Will you not lead them into peace when the battle is over?”

Ratha shook his head. “That is too heavy a burden for any man, my friend.”

“Yes,” Tom said. “It is not the burden of a warrior. It is the burden of a priest. But will men who have walked with a warrior suddenly turn to a priest who has not known their pain and horror, of one who has not seen in the night the faces of those he has slain? They will not, friend. They cannot. They will need a priest who has borne their burdens and who carries their scars.”

Ratha felt the truth in Tom’s words, even as he doubted his strength to fulfill them. This war would not, could not last forever. And if the gods should bless them with victory, then he and his men would have to return to their homes, to the stones of their Telner, and find again the beauty and joy in the simpler things of life. They would have to bear the daily trials of life with the warmth of husbands and fathers, and not with the cold hearts of warriors. They would have to step out from under the dark cloud of war into the sunlight of peace.

Could he lead them thus? How could he himself emerge from that darkness and be a man of peace, when he had never known the life of hearth and home, of wife and child, of sowing seed, nurturing field and gathering harvest? It was as if Tom were asking a blind man to teach color to those who had shut their eyes from too much.

“I am not the priest you seek,” Ratha said. “Call instead upon Jenah, who at least has lived among the Anari all of his days.”

“Had this war ended in the canyon, that might be,” Tom said. “For that was Jenah’s war, the war of the Anari to shake off their shackles and live as free men. But this war to come is more than that. It is a clash of brothers, of Annuvil and Ardred. The Anari will look to you, because you have walked beside Annuvil longer than any among us. You must be that priest of peace, my friend. For if you cannot, I fear the Anari can never again be as they were.”

“And how would I do this?” Ratha asked. “It is not enough to be willing. I doubt that I am able.”

“The power of one is the power of many,” Tom said. “And the power of many is the power of one. Begin with the one, my friend. Begin with yourself.”



When Tess emerged into the morning sunlight surrounded by her sisters and the clan mothers, she felt a lightness of spirit that had long been missing. It was as if spending the night surrounded by protectors had lifted her out of the dark place into which she had been steadily slipping since her battle with Elanor.

The sunlight seemed particularly clear and bright this day, paining her eyes until they adjusted. It seemed to her that she was seeing the beauty of Anahar afresh, almost as if she had never seen it before. Everything looked cleansed, almost purified, as if by a heavy rain.

Yet it had not rained.

She lifted her gaze to the cloudless skies, feeling the touch of Cilla’s and Sara’s shoulders against her own, and waited to see if anything would happen.

Something had changed. She felt it now in the chilly air. It was not only as if the darkness within her had vanished, but as if it had been driven out of this part of the world. Only in its absence did she realize how much Ardred had overshadowed everything.

She turned to look at the clan mothers who were arrayed behind her. Their dark, aging faces revealed fatigue, but a kind of shining joy as well.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you all.”

As one, they bowed to her. Then, as they straightened, Jahila, the youngest of them, spoke.

“Long have we awaited you, my lady. Your burdens are heavy and many, and what little we can do to help is gladly given.”

Tess returned the bow, but could feel her cheeks heating with embarrassment. Despite all that had happened, she didn’t believe she was even half what these people believed of her. She was certainly no savior, although they seemed to think otherwise.

“I am,” she said quietly, “only a woman like all of you. I hope I will not disappoint your hopes.”

She turned to walk away with Cilla and Sara. Behind them, the clan mothers drew bells from within their robes and shook them. A tinkle of almost unearthly music followed the three Ilduins’ departure.

“You look ever so much better, Tess,” Cilla commented. “I did not at all care for how you looked when I arrived yesterday.”

“Nor I,” Sara agreed.

Tess felt herself smile for the first time since the wedding. “Something has changed. Can you not feel it? Anahar is cleansed of his presence.”




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