SARA DOUGLASS

Sinner

Book One of The Wayfarer Redemption

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Fire-Night

Prologue

1 West and North

2 Master Goldman’s Soiree

3 StarSon Caelum

4 Beggars on the Floor, Travellers O’er the Bridge

5 Speaking Treason

6 The SunSoars at Home

7 Disturbing Arrivals

8 Maze Gate

9 WolfStar’s Explanation

10 Pastry Magics

11 Niah’s Legacy

12 Council of the Five Families

13 The Throne of Achar

14 A Moot Point

15 Murder!

16 SunSoar Justice

17 The Lake Guard on Duty

18 Hunting Drago

19 The Fugitive

20 Icebear Coast Camp

21 Travelling Home

22 Impatient Love

23 Minstrelsea

24 StarDrifter

25 DragonStar

26 The Sack (1)

27 Niah Triumphant

28 River Crossing

29 The Ancient Barrows

30 The Rainbow Sceptre

31 New Existences

32 The Questors

33 StarLaughter

34 Of What Is Lost

35 SpikeFeather’s Search

36 Kastaleon

37 The Leap

38 Zenith Lost

39 The Maze

40 The Maze Gate’s Message

41 A Town Gained, a Sceptre Lost

42 ForestFlight’s Betrayal

43 Faraday’s Lie

44 … And Sixty-Nine Fat Pigs

45 The Enemy

46 The TimeKeepers

47 Niah’s Grove

48 Carlon’s Welcome

49 Caelum Amid the Ruins

50 The Shadow-Lands

51 The King of Achar

52 Voices in the Night

53 An Army for the Asking

54 Journeying through the Night

55 The Blighted Beacon

56 Discussing Salvation

57 While WolfStar Lay Sleeping

58 As Clear as a Temple Bell

59 Zenith

60 Old Friends

61 An Army of Norsmen

62 The Warding of the Star Gate

63 Leagh’s Loyalties Divided

64 A Dagger from Behind

65 A Brother to Die For

66 In Caelum’s Camp

67 Caelum’s Judgment

68 Towards the Star Gate

69 The Fading of the Dance

70 Leap to the Edge

71 The Sack (2)

Epilogue: The Wasteland

Glossary

About the Author

By Sara Douglass

Copyright

About the Publisher

If poisonous minerals, and if that tree

Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us,

If lecherous goats, if serpents envious

Cannot be damned, alas, why should I be?

Why should intent or reason, born in me,

Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous?

John Donne, Holy Sonnet no. V

Fire-Night

The four craft crashed through the barriers between the outer universe and the planet, exploding in raging flames, creating the portal that later races would call the Star Gate.

The creatures inside fought for control of the craft, fought even knowing it was a lost cause – the craft had ceased to listen to them hundreds of years previously. But even when death was only moments away, their hands clung to navigation mechanisms, hoping to somehow save their cargo … and maybe even save the world to which they plummeted from their cargo.

It was useless. Most of them were drifting ashes by the time their flaming craft smashed deep into the surface of the planet.

Most of them. One, like the four craft, survived.

Within days the craft had shifted comfortably into the pits created by their violent arrival, accepting the waters that closed over their surface. For three thousand years they dreamed. Then they woke and began to grow, spreading their tentacles deep beneath the land, reaching out, each to the other. Their metalled surfaces and walkways and panels and compartments hummed with the music they had learned in the millennia they’d travelled the universe. But this music the craft kept to themselves, not letting it mix with the sound of the Star Dance that filtered through the Star Gate.

The Survivor occasionally woke from his own deep sleep, wandering the corridors of the craft and those hallways that extended between each craft, looking, looking, looking, but never finding.

“Katie!” he would cry, “Katie! I don’t know where it is!”

His searching always left him physically and emotionally exhausted, and within days of waking he would wander disconsolately back to his chamber, and there lie down to sleep yet again.

His dreams were disturbed, wondering why he’d survived, and yet not his comrades.

Wondering what the craft needed him to do.

Wondering whether the cargo was safe.

Wondering whether it would ever be claimed.

Wondering.

Aeons passed.

Prologue

Enchanter-Talon WolfStar SunSoar wrapped his wings tighter about his body and slipped deeper into the madness that consumed him. He stood at the very lip of the Star Gate itself, his body swaying gently to the sounds of the Star Dance that pounded through the Gate.

Come to me, come to me, join me, dance with me! Come!

Oh! How WolfStar wanted to! How he wanted to fling himself through the Gate, discover the mysteries and adventures of the universe, immerse himself completely in the loveliness of the Star Dance.

Yet WolfStar also wanted the pleasures of this life. The power he wielded as Talon over all Tencendor, the awe of the masses of Icarii, Avar and Acharite, and the firmness of StarLaughter’s body in his bed at night. He was not yet ready to give all that up. He had come young to the Talon throne, and wanted to enjoy it for as long as he could. But how the Star Gate tempted him …

Come! Join me! Be my lover! I have all the power you crave!

WolfStar could feel the indecision tearing him apart. Stars! What sorcery could be his if he managed to discover the full power of the Star Dance and ruled this mortal realm of Tencendor!

I want it all, he thought, all! But how?

If he surrendered to the almost irresistible lure of the Star Gate and threw himself in, then WolfStar also wanted to know he could come back. Return and flaunt his new-found power and knowledge. Revel in it. Use it. Of what use was power if it could not be used in life?

WolfStar was destined for legendary greatness. He knew it.

He shifted on the lip of the Star Gate and his mouth twisted in anger and frustration. What more could he do?

Over the past weeks he had selected the most powerful of the young Enchanters among the Icarii and had thrown them through the Star Gate. Come back, he had ordered, with the secrets of the universe in your hand. Share them with me. Tell me how I can step through the Star Gate and yet come back.

They were young, and their lives could be wasted, if waste it was.

But none had returned, and WolfStar was consumed with rage. How was he to learn the secrets and mysteries of the Star Gate, of the very universe itself, if they did not come back? Why did they refuse to come back?

Their weakness, their lack of courage, and their consummate failure meant that the mysteries of the stars were denied WolfStar until after his death. No, no, no … he could not countenance that. He couldn’t!

“WolfStar?”

WolfStar’s body stiffened and he barely restrained himself from letting his power bolt in anger about the chamber. “My title is Talon, CloudBurst. I command that you use it.”

“Brother, you must stop this madness. Nothing gives you the right to murder so many –”

“Murder?” WolfStar leaped down from the lip of the Gate and grasped his brother’s hair, wrenching CloudBurst’s head back. “Murder? They are adventurers, CloudBurst, and they have a duty to their Talon. And they are doing that duty badly!”

“WolfStar –”

“My title is Talon!” WolfStar screamed and twisted CloudBurst’s head until the birdman’s neck creaked and his face contorted in agony.

“Talon,” CloudBurst whispered, and WolfStar’s grip loosened. “Talon, you are throwing these children to their deaths. How many lives have been wasted now? Two hundred? More, Talon, more!”

“They would not die if they crawled back through the Star Gate. They have wasted themselves, not I. They have failed. Their blame, not mine.”

“No-one has ever come back through the –”

“That is not to say no-one can, CloudBurst.” WolfStar finally let CloudBurst go and stood back. “Perhaps they are not strong enough. I need young Enchanters of powerful blood. Very powerful.” His eyes locked with CloudBurst’s.

“No!” CloudBurst sank to his knees, quivering hands outstretched in appeal. “No! I beg you. Not –”

“Bring me your daughter, CloudBurst. StarGrace has SunSoar power. Part of her shares my blood. Perhaps she will succeed where others have failed.”

“No! WolfStar, I cannot –”

“I am Talon,” WolfStar hissed. “I am WolfStar SunSoar, and I command you! Obey me!”

But StarGrace did not return, either. WolfStar muttered instructions and orders to the terrified, sobbing sixteen-year-old girl as he seized her by her wings and hurled her into the Star Gate. But like all the others, she only cartwheeled into the pit of the universe to vanish completely. WolfStar stood at the lip of the Star Gate for two full days, watching and waiting, taking neither food nor drink, before he cursed StarGrace for all eternity for her weakness and failure and stepped back. He jumped, startled.

“You are tired, my husband. Will you not take some rest?”

StarLaughter stepped forward from the shadows of the arches. “Come with me, my love, and let me warm and soothe you to sleep.”

WolfStar reached out and smoothed his wife’s dark hair back from her face. She was his first cousin, close SunSoar blood, and second only to him in Enchanter power. So powerful.

Perhaps too powerful. For months now WolfStar had good reason to suspect StarLaughter plotted against him, plotted to take the title of Talon for herself.

WolfStar almost laughed. She must be mad to think she could wrest power from him.

He caressed her cheek, his fingers gentle, and StarLaughter forced herself to smile, even though her love for her husband was long dead.

WolfStar leaned forward and kissed her softly, allowing his hand to slide down over her body until he felt the energy throbbing through her swollen belly. His son, and so powerful, so powerful … did his unborn son conspire with StarLaughter? Was their son the reason she thought she could best him?

WolfStar’s hand stilled. His son. Even unborn he wielded more power than any other Enchanter he’d sent through the Star Gate. His son.

Perhaps he could succeed … his son. And it would certainly solve the more immediate problem of StarLaughter’s treachery.

StarLaughter’s hands closed over his and wrenched it away from her body.

No! she screamed through his mind.

“I need to know, beloved,” WolfStar whispered. “I need to know if I can come back. I need someone to show me the way. Who better than our son?”

“You would throw a newborn infant through? You would murder our son?”

StarLaughter took a step back. The birth was only weeks away – how far could she get in that time? Far enough to save her son’s life? Far enough to save her own life? What did WolfStar know? How much could he know?

“Too much!” WolfStar cried, and leaped forward and grabbed her. “Consider yourself a fit sacrifice for your son, StarLaughter. Your body will protect him from the ravages of passage through the Gate, my lovely. Will you not do this for our son? He will come back, I am sure of it.”

And once he does, WolfStar thought, I shall divest him of his knowledge and then of his life.

Now so terrified she could not even speak with the mind voice, StarLaughter shook her head in denial, her eyes huge and round, her hands clasped protectively over her belly.

“WolfStar, not your wife! Not StarLaughter!” CloudBurst stepped into the chamber, accompanied by several Crest-Leaders from the Icarii Strike Force.

WolfStar growled in fury and lashed out with his power, pinning them to the floor. “Anyone I choose … anyone!”

He dragged StarLaughter across to the Star Gate. In her extremity of fear she found her voice and screamed as she felt her legs touch the low wall surrounding the Star Gate. “No! WolfStar! No! No! No!”

It was the last thing anyone heard from StarLaughter for a very, very long time.

Five days later CloudBurst’s remorse and grief gave him the courage to plunge the twin-bladed knife into WolfStar’s back in the centre of the Icarii Assembly on the Island of Mist and Memory.

He gave one sobbing, hiccuping sigh as WolfStar sank to the mosaic floor, and then he relaxed. It was over. The horror was finally over.

There was no grief among the peoples of Tencendor when WolfStar SunSoar’s body was laid to rest in his hastily constructed Barrow above the Chamber of the Star Gate. With WolfStar dead, entombed, and on his own way through the Star Gate, Tencendor was at last safe from his madness.

Four thousand years passed. Tencendor was riven apart by the Seneschal and then restored by the StarMan, Axis SunSoar. The Icarii and the Avar returned to the southern lands, and the Star Gods, Axis and Azhure among them, were free to roam as they willed. Even though WolfStar had managed to come back through the Star Gate, he vanished once Axis had won his struggle with Gorgrael. Control of Tencendor, and the Throne of the Stars itself, passed from Axis to his son and heir, Caelum. Tencendor waxed bright and strong under the House of the Stars. All was well.

1 West and North

His wing-span as wide as a man was tall, the speckled blue eagle floated high in the sky above the silvery waters of Grail Lake. The day was calm and warm, the thermals inviting, but for the moment the eagle resisted climbing any higher. He tilted his head slightly, his predatory gaze undimmed by his vast age, taking in the pink and cream stone walls and the gold- and silver-plated roofs of the city of Carlon. The eagle’s gaze was only casual, for it was almost noon, and the streets so busy that all rodents would have secreted themselves deep in their lairs many hours previously. The eagle was not particularly concerned. He had feasted well on fish earlier, and now he tilted his wings, sweeping over the white-walled seven-sided tower of Spiredore.

The power emanating from the tower vibrated the eagle’s wings pleasantly, and made the old bird reflect momentarily on the changes in this land over his lifetime. When he had been newly feathered and only just able to stay aloft, he’d flown over this same lake and tower with the eagle who had fathered him. Then the tower had been still and silent, and the land treeless. Men had scurried below, axes in their hands and the Plough God Artor in their hearts. Ice had invaded from the north and Gryphon – creatures whom even eagles feared – had darkened the skies. But all that had changed. A great battle had been fought in the icy tundra far to the north, the ice had retreated and the Gryphon had disappeared from the thermals. In the west, enchanted forests had reached for the sky, and the white tower below had reverberated with power and song. The armies that had crawled about the land in destructive, serpentine trails disbanded, and now the peoples of this enchanted land – those who called themselves human, Icarii and Avar – shared their lives shoulder to shoulder in apparent harmony.

Contented, knowing that the score of chicks he had raised over his lifetime would have nothing more to fear than the anger of a sudden storm, the eagle tipped his wings and spiralled higher and higher until he was no more than a distant speck in the sky.

Leagh stood at the open windows of her apartments in the north wing of the Prince of the West’s palace in Carlon, watching the eagle fade from sight. Sighing, for watching the bird had calmed the ache in her heart, she dropped her gaze slightly to the ancient Icarii palace that loomed above the entire city. It seemed to Leagh that the palace looked lonely and sad in the bright sunshine. And so it should, she thought, for StarSon Caelum so rarely leaves Sigholt now that he only uses his palace in Carlon every three or four years.

Leagh did not covet the magnificent Icarii palace. Her older brother Askam’s palace was spacious and elegant, and grand enough for Leagh, who was a woman of conservative tastes and temperate habits. She dropped her eyes yet further, down to the gently lapping waters of the lake. A gentle easterly breeze blew across the waves, lifting the glossy nut-brown hair from her brow and sweeping it back over her shoulders in tumbling waves. Leagh had the dark blue eyes of her mother, Cazna, but had inherited her hair, good looks and calm temperament from her father, Belial. She had loved her father dearly, and still missed him, even though he’d been dead a decade. He’d been her best friend when she was growing up, and to lose him when she’d been sixteen had been a cruel blow.

“Stop it!” she murmured to herself. “Why heap yet more sadness and loneliness on your heart?”

Gods, why could she not have been born a simple peasant girl rather than a princess? Surely peasant women had more luck in following their hearts! Here she was at twenty-six, all but locked into her brother’s palace, when most women her age were married with toddlers clinging to their skirts.

Leagh turned back into the chamber, and sat at her work table. It was littered with scraps of silk and pieces of embroidery that she had convinced herself she would one day sew into a waistcoat for the man she loved – but when everyone around her apparently conspired to keep them as far apart as possible, what was the point? Would she ever have the chance to give it to him? Her fingers wandered aimlessly among several scraps, turning them over and about as if in an attempt to form a pattern, but Leagh’s thoughts were now so far distant that she did not even see what her fingers were doing.

Leagh’s only wish in life was to marry the man she loved – Zared, Prince of the North, son of Rivkah and Magariz. Yet it would have been easier for me, she thought wryly, if I’d fallen in love with a common carter.

The problem was not that Zared did not love her, for he did, and with a quiet passion that sometimes left her trembling when she caught his eyes across a banquet table. Yet how long was it since they’d had the chance to share even a glance? A year? More like two, she thought miserably, and had to struggle to contain her tears. More like two.

Nay, the problem was not only that Zared and she loved too well, but that a marriage between them was fraught with so many potential political problems that her brother, Askam, had yet to agree to it. (Though doubtless he would have let her marry a carter long ago!) Leagh loved her brother dearly, but he tried her patience – and gave her long, sleepless nights – with his continued reluctance to grant approval of the marriage.

Leagh’s eyes slowly cleared, and she picked up a star-shaped piece of golden silk and turned it slowly over and over in her hands. Power in the western and northern territories of Tencendor was delicately balanced between their two respective princes, Askam and Zared. Should she marry Zared, then the grave potential was there that one day West and North would be united under one prince. Askam had married eight years ago, but his wife Bethiam had yet to produce an heir. For the moment Leagh’s womb carried within it the entire inheritance of the West.

And, with its burden of responsibility and inheritance, thus did her womb entrap her.

If I were a peasant woman, Leagh suddenly thought, I would only have to bed the man of my choice and get with his child for all familial objections to our marriage to be dropped. She crushed the golden silk star into a tight ball, and tears of anger and heartache filled her eyes. Askam would not let her get within speaking distance of Zared, let alone bedding distance!

Frustrated with herself for allowing her emotions to so carry her away, Leagh smoothed out the silken patch and laid it with the others. The political problems were only the start of Askam’s objections, for Askam not only disliked Zared personally, but resented and felt threatened by Zared’s success in the North. The West encompassed much of the old Achar – the provinces of Romsdale, Avonsdale and Aldeni. Each year the lands produced rich harvests, and for decades Carlon had grown fat on the trade with the rest of Tencendor and the Corolean Empire to the far south. But despite its natural abundance, the West was riven with huge economic problems. As Prince of the West, Askam had managed to mire himself deep in debt over the past seven years. For three years he had entertained the entire eight-score strong retinue of the Corolean Ambassador while, on Caelum’s behalf, he had thrashed out an agreement for Tencendorian fishing rights in the Sea of Tyrre. When the agreement had finally been concluded, and the Ambassador and his well-fattened train once more in Coroleas, Askam had personally funded the outfit of a massive fishing fleet, only to have three-quarters of the boats lost in a devastating storm in their first season. Thinking to recoup his losses, Askam had loaned the King of Escator, a small kingdom across the Widowmaker Sea, a vast sum to refurbish the Escatorian gloam mines in return for half the profit from the sale of gloam, only to have the mines flooded in a disaster of epic proportions, and the new king – the previous having drowned in the mine itself – completely repudiate any monies his predecessor had borrowed.

These were only two of the investment disasters Askam had made over the past few years. There were a score of others, if not so large. Smaller projects had failed, other deals had fallen through after considerable cash outlay. Askam had been forced to raise taxes within the West over the past two years which, though they made but a small dent into the amount he owed, had caused hardship among farmers and traders alike. Yet who could blame Askam for the economic misfortune of the West? Sheer bad luck seemed to dog his best endeavours.

In total contrast, Zared’s North – the old province of Ichtar – had blossomed in unrivalled prosperity. In the days before Axis had reunited Tencendor, the old Ichtar had been rich, true, but it had relied mainly on its gem mines for wealth. The gem mines still produced – and a dozen more had opened in the past ten years – but Zared had also opened up vast amounts of previous wasteland for cropping and grazing. Zared had enticed the most skilled engineers to his capital of Severin, in the elbow of the Ichtar and Azle Rivers, with high wages and the promise of roomy housing and good schooling for their children. These engineers had designed, and then caused to be built, massive irrigation systems in the western and northern parts of the realm. Zared had then attracted settlers from all over Tencendor to these vast and newly watered lands by offering them generous land leases and the promise of minimal – and in some cases no – taxation for the first twenty-five years of their lease. Unlike the West, all farmers, traders and craftsmen in the North were free to dispose of their surplus as they chose. As a result, a brisk trade in furs had grown with the Ravensbundmen in the extreme north, which were then re-traded to the southern regions of Tencendor. And add to that the trade in beef, lamb, gems and grain …

The mood of the North was buoyant and optimistic. The income of families grew each year, and men and women knew their futures were strong and certain. Trade, working and taxation restrictions were so slight as to be negligible, and success waited for all who wished to avail themselves of it.

The picture could not have contrasted more with the West, where it seemed that month after month Askam was forced to increase taxes to meet debt repayments.

It was not his fault, Leagh told herself, willing herself to believe it. Who could have foreseen that a storm would virtually destroy Askam’s entire fishing fleet, or that the gloam mines of Escator would be flooded? But Askam’s misfortunes did not help her situation. Especially not when Askam was aware that each week saw more skilled craftsmen and independent farmers of the West slip across the border to avail themselves of the opportunities created by Zared’s policies.

“Leagh?”

She jumped, startled from her thoughts. Askam had entered her chamber, and now walked towards her. “You wanted to see me, sister?”

“Yes.” Leagh stood up and smiled. “I trust I have not disturbed you from important council?”

Askam waved a hand for her to sit back down, and took a seat across the table. “Nothing that cannot wait, Leagh.”

His tone turned brisk, belying his words. “What is it I can do for you?”

Leagh kept her own voice light, not wanting to antagonise her brother any more than she had to. “Askam, it is many weeks since you have made any mention of my marriage –”

Askam’s face tightened and he looked away.

“– to Zared.” Leagh shifted slightly, impatiently. “Askam, time passes, and neither Zared nor myself grow any younger! I long to be by his side, and –”

“Leagh, be still. You are noble born and raised, and you understand the negotiations that must be endured for such a marriage to be agreed to.”

“Negotiations that have been going on for five years!”

Askam looked back at his sister, his eyes narrowed and unreadable. “And for that you can only thank yourself for choosing such a marriage partner. Dammit, Leagh, could you not have chosen another man? Three nobles from the West have asked for your hand. Why not choose one of them? They cannot all be covered with warts and possessed of foul breath!”

“I love Zared,” Leagh said quietly. “I choose Zared.”

Askam’s face, so like his father’s with its mop of fine brown hair and hazel eyes, closed over at the mention of love. “Love has no place in the choosing of a noble marriage partner, Leagh. Forget love. Think instead of a marriage with a man which would keep the West intact and independent.”

He paused, let vent an exasperated sigh, then smiled, trying to take the tension out of their conversation. “Leagh, listen to me, and listen to reason, for the gods’ sakes. I wish you only happiness in life, but I must temper that wish with knowing that I, as you,” his tone hardened slightly, “must always do what is best for our people, not what is best for our hearts.”

Leagh did not reply, but held her brother’s gaze with determined eyes.

Askam let another minute slide by before he resumed speaking. “Leagh, it is time you knew that the yea or nay to this marriage has been taken from my hands.”

“What? By whom?” But even as she asked, Leagh knew.

“Caelum. He is as disturbed as I by the implications of a union between you and Zared. Last week I received word from him to delay a decision until he could meet with me personally to –”

“And yet he does not wish to speak to me, or to Zared?”

“Caelum sits the Throne of the Stars, Leagh. He has heavier responsibilities than you can imagine.”

Leagh bridled at her brother’s school-masterish tone, but held her tongue.

“Caelum knows well that the continued well-being of Tencendor matters before the wishes of any single person. Leagh, you are a Princess of Tencendor. As such you enjoy rights and privileges beyond those enjoyed by other Tencendorians. But these rights and privileges mean you also carry more responsibility. You simply can not live your life to the dictates of your heart, only to the dictates of Tencendor. I have tried these past five years to discourage you from choosing Zared, but you have not listened. Now, perhaps, you will listen to Caelum.”

Both his words and his tone told Leagh everything she needed to know. Caelum would not assent to the marriage either.

As Askam rose and left the room, Leagh finally gave in to her heartache and let tears slide down her cheeks. The very worst thing to bear was that she understood everything that stood in the way of her marriage. Why couldn’t she have accepted the hand of a nobleman from the West? It would be so much easier, so much more acceptable for the current balance of power. But what she understood intellectually didn’t matter when she’d totally given her heart to Zared. All she wanted in life was the man she loved.

Far to the north Zared straightened his back, refusing to let weariness slump his shoulders. He’d spent an entire week clambering over the ruins of Hsingard with several of his engineers to see if there was any point in trying to rebuild the town, only to come to the conclusion that the Skraelings had so destroyed the buildings that all Hsingard could be used for was as a stone quarry. Now he’d spent ten days riding hard for Severin, and even though he was lean and fit, the week at Hsingard and the arduous ride home had exhausted him.

But now Severin rose before Zared and, in spite of his tiredness, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was a beautiful town, built not only with sandstone and red brick to withstand the harsh winters of the north, but also with skill and imagination, so that the structural strength of each building was perfectly married with grace of line and beauty of feature. Severin was a town built to satisfy the spirits as much as it was to harbour the bodies of those who lived within.

Thank the gods for my parents’ foresight, he thought. Rivkah and Magariz had lived out the final twenty-five years of their lives in the town they’d had built, and had loved it almost as much as they had loved each other and the son they’d made between them. His parents had not only laid the foundation stones of Severin, but also of the territory Zared had inherited from them. The North had been the most severely ravaged region of Tencendor during the wars between Axis SunSoar and his brothers Borneheld and Gorgrael. Once it had crawled with ice, and worse – IceWorms, Skraelings, and Gryphon. Now fields ripened and cattle fattened, and any man, woman or child could travel from the Fortress Ranges to the coast of the Andeis Sea and encounter nothing more dangerous than the chill of a northern breeze.

Zared pulled his horse in slightly, waiting for his escort to catch up with him. He was a tall, spare but striking man with his father’s dark good looks and his mother’s light grey eyes. Even though he was now in early middle-age, Zared was as agile as most young men, and could still best any swordsman in the country. He had been bred in an age of war, and his father had spent many years training him in the arts of war, although for what, Zared was not sure. For forty years, since Axis had finally bested Gorgrael, Tencendor had lain peaceful and largely prosperous in the sun. Axis had ruled well and wisely – a glib enough statement, but true. And since, nine years ago, Axis had handed over control of Tencendor to his eldest son, Caelum had continued to lead Tencendor with the integrity that was the hallmark of the House of the Stars. And yet … and yet Zared would rest the easier once Caelum had proved his worth in true crisis.

His escort now directly behind him, Zared rode his horse through the gates in the town walls, returning the salutes of the guards standing to either side. For an instant the walls blocked out the noon-day sun and, as their shadow settled over Zared, so his mind turned to the one shadow in his own life – Askam.

He drove the thought from his mind almost as soon as it had surfaced, reining back his horse to a walk in the crowded streets. It was too warm a day to let thoughts of Askam cloud it over.

Zared’s path back to his palace on the hill overlooking the town was slowed, not only by the crowds, but by the individuals who called out greetings and, occasionally, stopped him for a quick word. Zared had never been a distant prince, not only holding open court in his palace every Thursday afternoon when he was in residence so that any citizen of the North had the chance to gain his ear, but making sure that he did not ride the streets of Severin so encased by retainers that all his people ever saw of him was a brief glimpse of a linen shirt or glittering sword hilt.

Now a man – a carpenter, Zared thought, by the tools at his belt – called out a cheerful greeting in unmistakable southern brogue. Zared grinned widely as he nodded back at him. That man was from Romsdale. Yet another who had chosen Zared over Askam.

It cheered Zared to think that so many skilled craftsmen and farmers chose to relocate to the North, but at the same time it concerned him. The tension between himself and Askam was a decade old, and growing stronger with each passing year. Every carpenter, every brickworker, every field-hand who moved north deepened the tension just that fraction more.

Ah! There was Askam again, intruding on his thoughts! Zared’s face lost its humour, and he pushed as quickly as was polite through the remaining streets to reach his palace. There, after a few words to the captain of the guard and a smile of thanks for his escort, Zared handed the reins of his horse over to a stableboy and hurried inside.

A bath and a meal later, Zared felt more refreshed. As his personal manservant cleared his table, Zared took a glass of wine and wandered into the reception gallery of his residence. His home was a palace in name only, a term designated by his subjects who somehow thought that as a prince he ought to live in a palace. Built initially by Rivkah and Magariz, the house was a roomy, elegant mansion that spread over the hill which rose on the northern borders of the town. When Zared was twenty-seven he had taken a wife, Isabeau, sister of Earl Herme of Avonsdale, and had added on a light and airy southern wing that together they’d planned to fill with the laughter of their children.

Zared’s steps slowed at the first portrait that lined the gallery. Isabeau. Her dark red hair cascaded about her shoulders, her mouth curled in secret laughter, her bright eyes danced with love for him. The portrait had been painted eighteen months into their marriage. Two weeks after it had been finished Isabeau was dead, crushed beneath the body of her horse which had slipped and fallen during the excitement of the hunt.

She had been five months pregnant with their first child.

Zared had never forgiven himself for her death. He should never have given her that horse – but she was so skilled a horsewoman. She should never have been riding at that stage in her pregnancy – but she was so healthy, so vibrant. He should have forbidden her to follow the hounds and hawks – but she did so love the hunt.

He’d never ridden to the hunt again. The day after her death Zared had given away his hawks, and the hunting horses in his stable. His huntmaster had drifted away, seeking employment with lords to the south.

And Zared had promised himself never to love so deeply again, and never again to expose himself to such hurt.

He took a mouthful of wine and moved along to the next portrait. His father, Magariz. And next to his portrait, that of his mother, Rivkah.

They were, Zared supposed, the reason he had succumbed to love again. Magariz and Rivkah had lived life so completely in love, and so contented in that love, that Zared just could not imagine living himself without a soulmate to share his life with. For years after Isabeau’s death he’d kept himself distant from women, keeping to his promise … and then he’d met Leagh.

Re-met her, actually, for Zared had known Leagh as a tiny girl in Belial’s arms. But once he’d assumed the Princedom of the North, his responsibilities had kept Zared away from Carlon, and he didn’t see Leagh again until she was twenty-one.

They’d met, not at Carlon, but at Sigholt. Wreathed in its magical blue mists, Sigholt was normally the province only of the enchanted SunSoar family, but the year Leagh turned twenty-one she’d travelled to Sigholt with Askam for a meeting of the Council of the Five First Families. Askam and Zared, as the heads of the two leading families, had attended, along with FreeFall SunSoar, the Icarii Talon, Sa’Domai, the Ravensbund Chief, and Prince Yllgaine of Nor. Leagh had gone, partly at Caelum’s invitation – a gift for her coming of age – and partly because she was close friends with Caelum’s youngest sister, Zenith.

Zared had found himself alone with her late one night atop the Keep of Sigholt, both there for the night air. They’d spent the night talking, laughing, and – as they both discovered to their amazement – falling deeply in love.

Loving her was the easy part, Zared reflected. Being together, spending their lives together, seemed all but impossible. He’d come home from that Council so optimistically in love that he’d ordered the private apartments of his residence to be redecorated in the blue of Leagh’s eyes.

Almost immediately he’d opened the diplomatic negotiations needed for such a high-ranking marriage, only to be confronted with a wall of distrust from Askam. Certainly the two had never liked each other, and they’d been economic rivals for years, but Zared had never thought that such matters would come between him and Leagh.

It was naive of him. Stupid of him.

Zared’s fingers tightened about his wine glass, and he moved a little further down the gallery. He didn’t want to be so close to his parents’ portraits. Now the likenesses only reminded him that his parents had spent some thirty years apart, and Zared didn’t want to think that he and Leagh might have to endure a similar separation.

Damn Askam! If he hadn’t got himself into such dire debt, if he hadn’t imposed such heavy taxes, then maybe the West would prosper as much as did Zared’s North. And maybe Askam would not feel so threatened by a marriage between his sister and Zared.

Zared was not a proud man, but neither was he foolishly modest. He knew that if he had been Prince of the West, he would not have made such risky investments as had Askam, nor would he have made his subjects pay for his mistakes. If he was Prince of the West as well as of North, then virtually the entire human population of Tencendor would live lives of heady prosperity. If. If. Damned ifs!

Now Zared stood in front of portraits of Rivkah’s brother, Priam, and her father, Karel. They had once ruled as kings of Achar, a vast realm that had stretched between the Andeis and Widowmaker seas and from the Icescarp Alps to the Sea of Tyrre.

But as Achar was no more, so too had the monarchy died. Acharite lands had been split up between Avar, Icarii and human, its territory incorporated into the larger Tencendor, its peoples divested of their king.

As he stared at the portraits of his uncle and grandfather, Zared remembered how well both had reigned. True, they had supported the Brotherhood of the Seneschal, an organisation that had brought only evil to all those who lived in the land, but in their own way Priam and Karel had ruled well and wisely. The monarchy had been brought into disrepute only when Zared’s older half-brother, Borneheld, had murdered Priam and taken the throne.

There was no portrait of Borneheld. Zared’s mouth quirked. Borneheld was a son and brother best forgotten.

He swallowed the last of his wine, still staring at the likenesses of Priam and Karel. What would it be like to govern (Zared’s mind shied away from the word “reign”) over such a large territory? What would he do with it? How would he improve it? How might he best help the West recover from the debts Askam had saddled it with?

Ah! These thoughts were treason!

Zared blinked, and started to turn away, but as he did so his eyes were caught by the golden circlet on Priam’s brow, and he stopped, his thoughtful gaze lingering on the gleam of gold as the shadows of dusk gathered about him.

2 Master Goldman’s Soiree

“Curse the Corolean Emperor to all the fire pits of the AfterLife,” Askam seethed, and tore the parchment he held into tiny pieces. “Why does he hound my life so?”

Askam’s four advisers, two minor noblemen, the Master of the Guilds of Carlon and the Chamberlain of Askam’s household, stood diplomatically silent. One million, three hundred and eighty-five thousand gold pieces was the reason the Corolean Emperor so hounded Askam. To be precise, one million, three hundred and eighty-five gold pieces that Askam owed the Emperor.

Jannymire Goldman, the Master of the Guilds, dropped his gaze to his thick-fingered hands folded politely before him. He’d advised Askam not to take out such a massive loan with the Emperor, but Askam had needed the money badly, and the Emperor had been willing to lend.

Now he wanted it back.

And what if Askam could not pay (and Goldman knew Askam could not pay)? What then? What might the Emperor demand as recompense? Goldman shuddered to think. The Coroleans would not invade, never that, but they certainly might lay claim to some lands or, gods forbid, to Carlon itself.

Would that make StarSon Caelum finally take a more personal hand in the West’s affairs? Caelum, although concerned about Askam’s increasing debt, had thus far preferred to see if Askam could not solve his problems himself, but Goldman knew that Caelum would never stand by and allow the Coroleans to assume control of even the most barren of fields in Tencendor.

“Well, there’s nothing for it,” Askam said in a milder tone of voice, “but to pay the damned man.”

Goldman raised his eyes in surprise, as did the other three advisers. Pay? How?

Askam took a very deep breath and sat back in his chair, staring at the four men ranged before his desk. All the gods in the universe knew he hated to do this but … not only would it solve most of his financial problems, it would also stop the flow of his people north.

And, perhaps, wipe the smirk off Zared’s face.

“Gentlemen,” Askam said softly, “I have no option. From fifth-day next week the taxes on goods moving up and down the Nordra, as goods moving along all inland roads in the West, will be raised to a third of the total value of the goods so moved.”

Goldman could not believe he’d heard right. A third? A third tax on all goods moved would cripple most merchants and traders, but it would destroy any peasant bringing a meagre bag of grain to the market. And what of the man who thought to take a basket of eggs to his widowed mother in the next village? Would that also be taxed a third?

He opened his mouth to object, but Askam forestalled him.

“Gentlemen, I know this is an onerous burden for all western Tencendorians to bear, but it should last only a year, perhaps two.”

A year or two would be enough to drive most to starvation, Goldman thought, on top of the taxes they already had to pay.

“And,” Askam continued, “think of the rewards we will reap from those …” he hesitated slightly, “… others who move their goods through our territory. For years they have taken advantage of our roads and riverboats to move their goods to market, whether here in Carlon or further south to Coroleas. It is high time they paid for the maintenance of the roads and boats they use.”

And by “others” Goldman and his three companions knew precisely whom Askam meant. Zared. Zared, who moved the wealth of his grain and gems and furs along the Nordra down to the markets that made him – and his people – prosperous.

“Sir Prince,” Goldman said, “this is indeed a weighty tax. If I might advise against it, I –”

“I have made up my mind, Goldman,” Askam said. “I called you here, as the Chamberlain Roscic and Barons Jessup and Berin, not to ask you for advice, but to inform you of the measures that must be taken.”

Roscic exchanged a glance with Goldman, then spoke very carefully. “Sir Prince, perhaps it might be best if you talked this over with StarSon Cae –”

“I will inform Caelum of my decision, Roscic!”

The Chamberlain subsided. He had already said too much, considering that his very position relied on Askam’s goodwill. Goldman, however, had no such qualms.

“These taxes are so grievous, Sir Prince, that perhaps they should be discussed with –”

“StarMan Axis SunSoar himself gave my father the right to tax the West as he willed, Master Goldman! I will inform StarSon Caelum, but I have every right to impose these taxes without his assent. Is that understood?”

The four bowed their heads.

Askam looked at them a moment, then resumed. “There is one other thing. Over the past eighteen months, if not more, over two thousand men have moved their families north of the Azle.”

Askam shrugged a little. “If they want to subject their families to the northern winters, then so be it, but the fact remains that most of those two thousand have been men skilled in their crafts, professional businessmen, or successful farmers. They have left a considerable gap in the West’s resources – no wonder I have so much trouble trying to meet debt repayments.”

No, no, Goldman pleaded silently, don’t do it! Don’t –”

In order to stem the tide I have instructed the border guards at the Azle and Jervois Landing to exact the equivalent of ten thousand gold pieces from each family that intends to leave for the North.”

But that is ten times my annual income, Goldman thought. How will an ordinary craftsman pay it?

“That should go some way towards balancing the loss of their skills,” Askam said. “That is all, gentlemen, you have my permission to leave.”

That evening Goldman called more than a score of men to his townhouse in upper Carlon, all of them leading citizens and tradesmen, and there he spoke volubly about the new taxes and their implications.

“I will be ruined!” cried Netherem Pumster, Master Bell-Maker. “How else can I transport my bells if not by riverboat?”

“And I!” said Karl Hurst, one of the leading wool traders in Tencendor. “As will most of the peasants in the West! All rely on transporting their wool bales across the roadways of the West to the Icarii markets in the Minaret Peaks!”

His voice was joined by a dozen others, all increasingly angry and indignant as the implications of the tax sank in.

“As will everyone eventually be ruined,” Goldman said quietly into the hubbub. He held up his hands. “Gentlemen, please …”

Men slowly subsided into their seats, worry replacing anger.

“I should have moved north last year, when my brother went,” Hurst said as he sat down. “The North may be further from the markets that I’d like, but at least Zared wouldn’t try to take my soul to put meat on his table.”

“More like,” put in a stout silversmith, “he’d give his soul if he thought it might put meat on your table.”

Goldman nodded to himself, pleased with the direction the conversation had taken, content now to sit back and let the treason take its course.

Treason? he asked himself. Nay, natural justice, more like.

“Things have never been the same since Priam died,” said a fine-metal worker.

“Not the same since Axis SunSoar proclaimed Tencendor on the shores of our lake,” said another.

“Now, now,” Goldman demurred. “The SunSoars have done us proud. Have you ever known life to be better? More peaceful? Who dislikes trading with the beauty-loving and generous-spirited Icarii? Or even the Avar?”

There was a small silence, then Hurst spoke up again. “Our quarrel is not with Tencendor as such, nor with the Icarii or the Avar. I, for one, admire the SunSoars greatly for what they have done for our land.”

“Oh, aye!” a dozen voices echoed fervently.

“Aye,” Hurst repeated. “I voice no wish to resurrect the hatreds of the past.”

“Nay!” came the resounding cry.

“Nay,” Hurst echoed again, then looked about and licked his lips. “But these taxes … I cannot believe them! It never would have happened under King Priam, or even King Karel, from what I have heard of the man! Askam will destroy the West in his attempts to solve his debts!”

No-one missed the emphasis.

“Of course, Askam was not bred for such responsibility,” said a merchant named Bransom Heavorand. He was one of Goldman’s closest friends, and he knew the way the Master of the Guilds’ mind was travelling. “He has not the blood for it. No wonder he missteps so badly.”

“Yet his father, Belial, base-born as he was, was a kind and effective prince,” Goldman said, working as closely with Heavorand as two voices in a duet. “And he was Axis SunSoar’s right-hand man. Surely he deserved the reward of Princedom of the West?”

“Askam is not the man his father was,” Heavorand said. “Unlike Belial, he’s lived a life of ease. He’s not had to fight for his life, nor the life of his country. He’s not been tempered by the sacrifice and loss Belial endured. Nor has he inherited his father’s courage and fairness.”

Men nodded about the room.

“Given an estate to run, no doubt he would prove capable enough,” Heavorand finished. “But so large a responsibility as the Princedom of the West has Askam flummoxed.”

“And us bankrupt,” someone muttered, and the room broke into subdued laughter.

“Yet the North prospers,” Goldman said. “Zared, as his parents before him, has built steadily on solid foundations. He is generous but firm, courageous but conservative in the risks he takes – or exposes his people to. His people love him.”

“Many among our people love him, too,” said one of the men.

“And there’s the nub of the matter,” said Heavorand, speaking only at the slight nod of Goldman’s head. “Zared was born of the blood of kings, Askam was not. Thus the North prospers while the West strangles.”

Silence.

“Born of the blood of kings,” said a voice far back in a darkened corner. “Are you saying what I think you say? Zared was born to rule?”

“What I say is only fact,” Heavorand replied. “Zared is born of Rivkah, last princess of Achar, and Magariz, one of the highest-ranking nobles Achar had ever seen. They were legally married. Borneheld, Rivkah’s eldest, was illegitimate, and thus his attempts to claim the throne of Achar met with disaster. Axis, may he live forever, was also illegitimate, and while he founded the Throne of the Stars, he rightly made no claim to the Acharite throne. Zared was Rivkah’s only legitimate child. Zared,” he paused, reluctant to speak these words even among friends, before finally gathering his courage, “is the legitimate heir to the throne of Achar.”

“But Achar no longer exists,” Goldman put in. “The throne no longer exists. Axis destroyed both. Surely Zared is heir to nothing but memories?”

There was a moment of silence, then Hurst spoke up, his face red. “But is that right? The Icarii have their Talon, the Ravensbund have their Chief, and now the Avar even have their head, the Mage-King Isfrael! Why should the Acharites not have their head … nay, their pride back?”

The room broke into uproar, and Goldman was once again forced to stand and hold up his hands for quiet.

“May I remind you, my friends,” he said very softly, “that the term ‘Acharites’ is no longer lawful.” One of Caelum’s first edicts on taking the Throne of the Stars had been to ban the use of the term “Acharites” for the human population of Tencendor. To him it smacked too much of the hatreds that had torn Tencendor apart in the first instance.

“Whether we are Acharites, or Tencendorians, or bloody Manmallians,” said the silversmith angrily, “doesn’t change the fact that I’d prefer to have a King Zared ruling my life than a petty Prince Askam. No! Wait … there’s more. It doesn’t change the fact that whether prince or king or pauper for all I care, Zared is the man I’d prefer to have at my back in a street brawl, in a war, or as a drinking companion in a tavern. I respect Zared, I like Zared, and what I think of Askam doesn’t bear spoken word in this company!”

“And what’s more,” cried a voice, “Zared is the rightful ruler, not Askam!”

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Goldman cried. “Please … listen to me! Quiet down now! Yes … yes … thank you, that’s better. Gentlemen, I am Master of the Guilds of Carlon. I am your spokesman, your voice. What would you have me do?”

Silence.

“I think,” Heavorand said quietly, “that a little visit to Zared might be in order. I think the Prince needs to know just how his people –”

No-one in the room missed the use of the phrase “his people.”

“– feel about a number of issues.”

“Will he act?” said a voice. “Or will he back away?”

“If it is your wish,” Goldman said, “then I, with Heavorand, will make my way north … on a trading trip, should Askam enquire. Once with Zared, I am sure I can phrase matters in such a way that Zared will be hard put not to act.”

He regarded the room silently, then grinned conspiratorially.

3 StarSon Caelum

The great silvery keep of Sigholt sat quiet in the night air, reflecting stray moonbeams across the Lake of Life. At this time of night few people were about. Two or three guards moved about its walls, a servant trotted silently through the courtyard from barracks to kitchens, an Icarii Enchanter stood on the roof, mesmerised by the stars. Around the crescent of the lake, the town of Lakesview sat fat and secure on the shoreline. It was a well-established town now, its people indulging in some trading, some agriculture and much contentment. The nearby valleys and slopes of the Urqhart Hills in the immediate vicinity of Sigholt gave them all they wanted in food and recreation; few within the town pushed themselves to do much more than enjoy what proximity to the wondrous lake was given to them by the magical Keep and the extended family of SunSoars resident within its luminous grey walls.

Almost perfectly centred on the strip of shore between Lakesview and Sigholt was a substantial stone building. Over five storeys high, most of its large unglassed windows and permanently open doors faced the lake, as if the building wished to absorb as much of the breeze, or perhaps as much of the lake, as it could.

From one of the ground-floor doors two Icarii birdmen emerged. They walked slowly towards the lake, eventually standing in close conversation as the waters lapped at their feet. One wore an ivory-coloured uniform with an embroidered device that resembled a twisted knot of golden braid centred on his chest. The other birdman had striking red plumage and hair, the skin of his face and hands so white they seemed to glow in the moonlight.

StarSon Caelum SunSoar, supreme ruler of Tencendor, stood at one of the windows in the map-room of Sigholt, wondering what they talked about so quietly. Caelum was one of the most powerful Icarii Enchanters born, a child of the Star Gods, and even though his keen eyesight could easily pick out the birdmen so far below, he baulked at using his powers to listen to their actual words. Caelum was ever polite, and he trusted the two men below as few others.

Still, they were an enigmatic pair. WingRidge CurlClaw, the birdman in the ivory uniform, was captain of the Lake Guard, a somewhat eccentric force who had dedicated themselves entirely to the service and protection of the StarSon. Even so, Caelum sometimes felt they kept themselves at a distance, not only from the life of Sigholt, but even from himself.

But in itself that distance, and its essential peculiarity, was not surprising – and had a great deal to do with the birdman WingRidge currently conversed with, SpikeFeather TrueSong. The Lake Guard was formed exclusively from the six hundred children SpikeFeather had rescued from Talon Spike many years ago. Rather than risk the children to possible Gryphon attack on the ice trails of Talon Spike, SpikeFeather had pleaded with the Ferryman to take the children to safety via the waterways. The children had reached Sigholt safely, but they had been subtly changed by the experiences in the waterways with Orr, and when they reached their majorities they had formed the Lake Guard. They announced their complete dedication to the service of the StarSon, and chose as their uniform breeches and plain ivory tunics with the strange emblem on their chests.

None of the Lake Guard ever explained it.

If no-one quite understood the Lake Guard, then all trusted them. Again and again the Guard pledged their loyalty to the StarSon. Their lives were dedicated to his word, their hearts to his cause. They might disappear for days, sometimes weeks on end, but they claimed their ultimate duty was always to the StarSon. Caelum, as everyone else, did not doubt it. They were an accepted part of Sigholt, and as mysterious as the Keep itself.

SpikeFeather was almost as enigmatic. He, too, had been changed by his contact with Orr the Ferryman. As payment for Orr transporting the children to Sigholt, SpikeFeather had dedicated his life to the Ferryman, and for the past twenty years had spent much of his time in the waterways with Orr. What SpikeFeather did down there, or what Orr did to the birdman, Caelum did not know.

As Caelum watched, WingRidge and SpikeFeather parted company, WingRidge rising slowly in the air towards the walls of Sigholt where Caelum supposed he would inspect the members of the Lake Guard stationed there, SpikeFeather walking slowly about the shoreline of the lake, apparently deep in thought.

Caelum sighed and turned back into the circular map-room. The centre table was covered with documents, piles of accounts, reports from several of the major towns, and ledgers bound with ribbon and stuffed with loose pages. Caelum fought the urge to sigh again and wandered slowly over to the table, running a hand through his thick, close-cropped black curly hair. Was there never an end to the paperwork? Sigholt sometimes seemed full of secretaries and notaries and bureaucrats, all of them there supposedly to keep track of the vast amount of paperwork that governing Tencendor somehow generated, but Caelum sometimes wondered if they were of any use – his desk never seemed to clear of the damned stuff.

No wonder Axis had handed control of Tencendor over to him! Caelum smiled softly, thinking of his parents, and knowing in his heart that it was far more than paperwork that had seen them leave. Axis and Azhure had remained at Sigholt while their children grew into adulthood, but when Zenith, their youngest, had reached the age of twenty-five, they had increasingly turned to their fellow Star Gods for companionship. Nine years ago, growing ever more inclined to the ethereal and wanting to spend more time exploring the mysteries of the stars, Axis had handed over full control of Tencendor to Caelum in a magnificent ceremony on the shores of Grail Lake, where Axis had proclaimed Tencendor so many years ago. In the years since then Caelum had seen his parents only three or four times. They kept themselves remote, as befitted their status as gods, and left Caelum to manage the realm of mortals.

Even though he had steered Tencendor for nine years, and seen it successfully through several peaceful disputes, Caelum still felt slightly uncomfortable about his position as supreme ruler. Axis had won his right to rule through sheer courage, through years spent on the fighting trail, through heartache and loss and grief. Caelum had been given the realm, almost literally, on a golden platter. Oh, he’d been trained and guided and counselled for years beforehand. Axis had sent him for several six-month periods to the great southern empire of Coroleas, and once for seven months to the intriguing little kingdom of Escator. At the hands, not only of Axis himself, but other petty kings and grand emperors, Caelum had studied the art of governance in depth.

But still Caelum sometimes felt that he should have won his right to sit the Throne of the Stars as his father had. Was the sheer luck of birth order enough to guarantee that a son had the skills and wisdom needed to govern so large a realm? What did his people actually think of him?

“I should get out more often,” Caelum said to himself. “Actually see what’s going on and not rely on reports. How long is it since I’ve left Sigholt?”

“Too long,” a soft voice put in from the window, and Caelum turned about, unsurprised. He’d known who it was even before she spoke, for he’d felt her presence coalesce in the window as he’d muttered to himself.

“Zenith.” He grinned and held out his hands. “It’s been days! Where have you been?”

His youngest sister jumped lightly down from the windowsill and hugged her brother tight. Unlike Caelum, who remained bare-backed like their parents, Zenith had glossy wings, as raven-black as her hair. She was a beautiful birdwoman, even more stunning than her mother, Azhure. Mysterious, intriguing, and yet somehow sad, always apart from the life of Sigholt. Caelum held the hug, wondering why. Even as a child Zenith had seemed troubled. She had often slept badly, suffering formless nightmares, and on many days was withdrawn and uncommunicative. And sometimes … sometimes Caelum had caught her looking at him with an expression that was so unlike her that he’d wondered if …

“Why the frown?” Zenith leaned back and took her brother’s face briefly in her hands, kissing him lightly on the lips.

Caelum folded her wings against her back and stroked them softly. “I was thinking, loveliest of sisters, that it is high time you also thought about fleeing –”

Why had he used that word? Caelum stumbled slightly, but managed to carry on before Zenith could speak. “– leaving Sigholt. How many years since you left? No, don’t answer! Too many, that I know.”

Zenith quietened in that strange way she had, and Caelum sensed a slight withdrawal.

He stood back a little, but kept his hand lightly on her shoulders. “Zenith? StarDrifter would love to see you, I’m sure. You spent a great deal of time with him when you were a child, and the Island of Mist and Memory is a wondrous place.”

“Maybe.” She suddenly grinned, her dark blue eyes mischievous. “Should I take Drago with me, as I did when a child?” Zenith more than half suspected that Caelum’s suggestion was a roundabout way of ridding Sigholt of Drago’s presence for a while.

Caelum dropped his hands and walked away from her. “As you wish,” he said, his voice toneless. “But that wasn’t what I meant.”

Zenith instantly regretted trying to joke about Drago. He was a constant note of disharmony within Sigholt, although he never said or did anything that could be in any way construed as sinister or hurtful. It was just that he was so different from his brothers and sisters. Caelum, RiverStar and Zenith (as also Isfrael, their half-brother) were the children of gods. They were highly magical beings, and their enchanted lives would likely stretch into infinity before they ended. Once Drago had been like them. Briefly. Drago had been born the second child of Axis and Azhure, the elder twin of RiverStar, and potentially one of the most powerful Enchanters ever birthed. But even as a mewling infant he had abused that power, allying himself with his father’s foe, Gorgrael, and plotting to murder Caelum so that Drago might inherit his place.

As punishment Azhure had disinherited him of his Icarii powers. Now, forty years on, Drago wandered the corridors of Sigholt a dark and enigmatic mortal, ageing into useless thin-faced middle years as he watched his brothers and sisters glory in their youth and enchanted powers.

Caelum was never able to trust him, even knowing his powers had gone. It was Caelum who had been the object of Drago’s infant ambitions, who had been subject to the terror of kidnap and abuse by Gorgrael, and it was Caelum who was daily reminded of that horror every time he caught sight of Drago from the corner of his eyes. Zenith knew that Caelum made every effort to avoid Drago whenever he could, but even in a place as large as Sigholt the brothers constantly ran into each other.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly to Caelum’s back. “I did not mean to jest.”

He turned his head her way, and smiled slightly. “It does not matter, Zenith. Drago does not –”

There was a knock at the door, and it opened without waiting for Caelum’s word. WingRidge CurlClaw entered, stopped after precisely five paces, and saluted Caelum. “StarSon.”

“WingRidge. What is it?”

WingRidge glanced at Zenith, but made no comment on her presence. “StarSon, a courier bird has just arrived from Carlon with a message from Prince Askam.”

Caelum took the proffered parchment, unrolled it with a snap of his wrist, and ran his eyes over the text.

“Curse him to … to … oh, damn him!” he cried, and Zenith laid a concerned hand on his arm.

“Caelum? What is –”

“That cursed fool has just levied a third … a third … tax on all goods moved along the Nordra and along the roadways of the West. And slapped a tax on any and every man and family who wants to move north to live. Gods! Look at the amount! That figure must have come to him when he was suffering a nightmare caused by chronic constipation. Oh! I can’t believe this!”

He threw the parchment on the table and stalked away to the window, standing and staring out as he fought to regain his temper. Gods, but Askam and Zared gave him more trouble combined than Borneheld and Gorgrael had ever given his father, he was sure of it! How many times had he had to draw one or the other aside for some diplomatic advice? Between them they controlled half the territory of Tencendor – was it too much to ask of them to try and do that in something even vaguely resembling peace?

Zenith looked at WingRidge, who remained completely expressionless, then picked up the parchment and briefly scanned the contents herself. Her eyes widened as she slowly put it down – no wonder Caelum had reacted so strongly.

“Caelum?” she said, and waited for her brother to look at her.

“Caelum … this time something needs to be done to solve their problems. And Leagh, you must surely end her misery soon.” Although Zenith had not seen Leagh in some four years, they remained in close touch; Zenith not only knew how much Leagh hungered for Zared, she understood why Caelum and Askam were going to deny Leagh her heart’s desire. Poor Leagh, she thought, it’s time she was told to move on with her life. Five years of alternating between misery and gut-wrenching hope was too long for anyone.

Caelum nodded slowly, and rubbed his face with one hand. He suddenly looked very, very tired. “The time has come to solve this. Askam has gone too far with his debt – and Zared should have been astute enough in the first instance to know that a marriage between him and Leagh, especially with Bethiam remaining so stubbornly barren, would be a political impossibility.”

He drew a deep breath. “This needs not only my authority, but the weight of the Council of Five.”

Zenith’s eyes widened. The heads of the leading five families of Tencendor only met on a biennual basis; to call them in now, not eight months since their last meeting, bespoke how serious Caelum thought the problem was. As ruler of Tencendor, Caelum’s final word was law – legally he did not need to call the Council on this matter – but he obviously felt both Zared and Askam needed the judgment of their peers as well as his own word.

“WingRidge?”

WingRidge snapped to attention.

“Send couriers to Zared, Sa’Domai, FreeFall, Yllgaine and Askam. We meet with the utmost haste – no later than seventh-day three weeks from now. And send for Isfrael as well.”

Isfrael, now Mage-King of the Avar, was not officially a member of the Council of Five and did not have a vote, but for the past ten years he had attended all the meetings, and given and listened to advice. As Caelum’s half-brother and leader of one of Tencendor’s three main races, he was usually invited as a courtesy.

Besides, no-one particularly liked to make a decision in Isfrael’s absence that might subsequently annoy him.

As WingRidge put his hand to the doorknob, Caelum called him back. “No, wait. Leave Askam. I will send a personal courier rather than one of yours.”

WingRidge nodded, and was gone.

“Zenith?” Caelum smiled at his sister, although his eyes remained tired and careworn. “Why don’t you tell Askam?”

“Me? But –”

“The bridge can connect you to Spiredore easily enough, and from there it’s only a short flight across Grail Lake to Carlon.”

“But why me?”

“Because I think Leagh should be here as well. I need to tell her my decision, and I’d rather do it to her face than by courier bird. Don’t you want to see her? Bring them both back by Spiredore. Askam can send his escort north by more conventional means.”

“I don’t know that I want to leave –”

Caelum’s voice hardened into command. “You need to be more involved with Tencendor, Zenith. I am asking you to go, but if you wish I can make your departure slightly more compulsory.”

Zenith’s chin tilted up, and in that movement Caelum saw all of his mother’s fire and determination. “As you wish, brother. I shall leave before sunrise.”

And with a slight but noticeable twitch of her shoulders, she brushed past him and left the room.

4 Beggars on the Floor, Travellers O’er the Bridge

She preened before the mirror in her chamber, running her hands down her lightly clad body, liking what she saw, what she felt. RiverStar SunSoar was a lovely, alluring birdwoman, and she knew it. What man had ever been able to resist her?

She lifted her hands to her fine golden curls and shook them out. How they complemented her violet eyes! Her pale skin!

“I am irresistible,” she said, then laughed, low and husky.

Irresistible indeed – except to the one who continually resisted her.

She froze at a subtle touch. Power.

His. It stroked at her arms, lifted the material from her breasts, rippled down over her belly, her legs.

Her lover. He was close.

She did not move, pretending not to notice. She would make him beg. She would!

Except he never begged. Always she ended on the floor before him, her hands clinging to his legs, her golden wings spread out in appeal behind her, begging him to bed her.

She would writhe before him, sobbing and shrieking, until he had her so completely in his power that she would scream her gratitude when he finally lifted her and threw her to the mattress.

RiverStar frowned at her reflection. She did not like to have to beg … but, oh gods, how could she withstand him when his power stroked her, caressed her, penetrated her?

As it did now. She shuddered, tears filling her eyes, and when he opened the door and entered the chamber she fell to the floor and begged, begged, begged …

“You are unlike any other,” she whispered into his ear when it was finally done and they lay sweat-tangled amid the sheets. “None.”

“I was made for a purpose,” he said, smiling, and kissed her brow.

“Let me stand by your side as your lover,” she said. “Please. Let all see how good we are together.”

“No.”

“Why not?” she screamed, hate for him contorting her beautiful face. “Why not? You can do anything you –”

His hand caught at her face, his fingers digging deep, hurting so badly she whimpered.

“You will tell no-one about us,” he hissed. “No-one! Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she whispered. “I will tell no-one. Never tell. No. Please, love me again. Please … please … please …”

Zenith stopped in her chambers to change into a vivid robe and to give her face and hair a cursory check in her mirror. Caelum was right, it was time she left Sigholt for a while. She’d been thinking much the same thing – thus her reaction when Caelum had verbalised the unspoken thoughts that had consumed her for almost a week.

Something was wrong. She couldn’t say what, or even what it might be related to, only that for the past few days a feeling of formless dread had been growing in her. Dread, and a sense of loss so deep that for three nights in a row she’d woken drenched in sweat, her hands clawing at the sheets.

Thus the reason she’d been wandering about Sigholt so late tonight.

These nightmares reminded her of those she’d had when she was much younger. Nights when she’d woken screaming, nights when the only way she’d agree to go back to sleep was sandwiched between the comfort of her parents. Axis had always questioned her closely about the dreams, but Zenith could never remember their details – maybe didn’t want to remember – and Azhure had refused to let Axis use the Song of Recall to summon them from her murky subconscious.

“Leave the child be,” her mother would say softly, stroking the hair back from Zenith’s brow. “She doesn’t need to remember them, only to be reassured of our love.”

And somehow that love had helped Zenith through. The dreams had begun to fade when she was eighteen or nineteen, and were gone completely by the time she’d reached her majority.

Although there was still the problem of the lost hours.

This was something she’d never told her parents about – why, she could not say. But some days she would suddenly find herself in a distant part of Sigholt, or even in a nearby valley of the Urqhart Hills, and have no knowledge of how she had arrived there. Hours, sometimes even half a day, would have been lost to her.

These episodes had also lessened as she grew older, but Zenith still had one or two a year.

And, in the past week, three.

This was the reason she’d hesitated when Caelum had suggested she go to Carlon.

What if she “lost herself” somewhere in Spiredore and came to her senses sitting on an icefloe in the Iskruel Ocean? How would she explain that to Caelum? How could she explain it to herself?

Zenith hesitated in the centre of her chamber, a stunningly beautiful, slim birdwoman, robed in scarlet that contrasted vividly with the darkness of her wings and hair.

Taking a huge breath, Zenith tried to calm her nerves, wrapping herself so deep with magic it literally blurred the outlines of her figure.

An image formed before her: her grandfather, StarDrifter. It was a memory only, not the actual person; StarDrifter lived far south on the Island of Mist and Memory, devoted to his duties among the priestesses of Temple Mount.

This was a memory that Zenith had carried with her for some thirty years, a memory of a day when she’d been staying with her grandfather on the island, and had found herself wandering the southern cliff faces of Temple Mount with no idea how she’d got there.

She’d been young then, and she’d been growing her wings only a year. They’d still felt strange to her, and she still fumbled on her infrequent flights, so that suddenly coming to awareness at the crumbling edge of a thousand-pace drop had been terrifying.

She’d screamed, sure she was going to die, and then StarDrifter was there, wrapping her in his arms and wings, pulling her back, holding her and singing to her and telling her she was safe, safe, safe.

From that moment on Zenith had adored StarDrifter, treasured him beyond the usual love of a granddaughter for her grandfather.

Now she recalled the image of StarDrifter, his beautiful face full of love, a gentle hand cupping her chin so he could look in her eyes.

“I’ll always be there to catch you,” he’d said. “I’ll always be there for you.”

“Always …” Zenith whispered, and the image faltered and then faded.

“Very pretty.”

She whirled about, furious that anyone should have seen the vision.

Drago was leaning nonchalantly against the doorway that led into her private washroom. His thin face was unreadable, his eyes narrowed, his arms carefully folded across his chest.

A towel was tucked over one arm, and Zenith noticed that Drago’s coppery hair was damp and newly combed back into its tail in the nape of his neck.

“Why not use your own chambers to wash?” she snapped.

“I’d been down in the stables,” he said, standing up straight and throwing the towel back inside the wash room, “helping Stephain with the grey mare. She foaled tonight. Difficult birth.”

“But that doesn’t excuse why –”

“I would have used my own chambers, save that Caelum is stamping and striding about the upper-floor corridors, and frankly the last thing I needed tonight was to run into him. So I thought I’d ask you if I could use your washroom. You weren’t here, so …”

He shrugged, walking over to stand before Zenith. “I heard you come in just as I was finishing up. If you’re concerned, I didn’t stand and watch you change. I may be many things, sister mine, but I am not a voyeur.”

“Yet you saw my memory of StarDrifter.”

“I thought I heard his voice – it made me come to the door. Zenith, I like him too … remember?”

Zenith was rapidly losing her temper which, truth be told, was mainly a product of her shock. And Drago did like StarDrifter. She was unsure about so many things regarding Drago, but his genuine feeling for StarDrifter was not one of them. As a child, Drago had enjoyed his months with StarDrifter almost as much as she had. For some reason StarDrifter had been able to reach the uncommunicative youth in a way Axis and Azhure could not – or could not be bothered to.

She looked at her brother, and for an instant emotion threatened to choke her. What could he have grown into if he had been given love instead of rejection? Their parents had, if not ignored him, then favoured all their other children before him. His punishment for plotting against Caelum had left him with little of his rich Icarii heritage: his coppery hair, still thick but kept pulled back into its tight tail, and his violet eyes, although they had faded with age. Against his vivid and powerful siblings he was just a thin, rather plain man, age and frustrated life marking his face with deep lines.

Drago had done wrong, no-one could deny that, but Zenith often wished their mother could have found some other way to punish him that would not have resulted in the destruction of so much potential, the annihilation of so many dreams.

She caught herself before Drago thought to ask why she took so long to respond.

“Well, if you don’t want to run into Caelum – and he is in a fearful temper – then you can use my bed for the night.”

Drago arched an enquiring eyebrow.

Briefly Zenith told him what she and Caelum had learned.

“And so now, good girl that you are, you go to do StarSon’s bidding.” Drago yawned theatrically. “Well, off you go now. That bed does look inviting.”

Not trusting her temper, Zenith stalked over to the door. Just as she reached it, Drago said softly, “That was a beautiful memory you conjured up into flesh, Zenith. I wish I had that skill.”

Zenith turned and stared at him, not knowing how to take his words. Was he expressing resentment that he no longer had the power to do similar feats, or was he expressing genuine regret?

But Drago gave her no clue. He’d dropped across the bed, his face away from her, and so Zenith left the room, not knowing whether to feel sorry for him, or angry.

By the time Zenith reached the courtyard Drago had slipped far from her mind. Instead she felt the first tingle of excitement. It was good to get away, even if only for a day or so.

The guards at the massive gate in Sigholt’s walls nodded to her, and then Zenith was through and on the short space of roadway leading to the bridge that guarded Sigholt’s entrance.

“A good evening to you, bridge,” she called softly as she stepped onto its cobbled carriageway.

“And a good evening to you, Zenith,” the bridge said in her deep, melodious voice. No-one ever understood the bridge, what she truly was, or what magic had created her. She simply existed, and her sole purpose in her existence was to guard all entrances into Sigholt. All visitors, whether by foot, hoof or air, were challenged by the bridge as to whether they were true or not.

No-one ever knew what she really meant by that, either.

But the bridge generally kept Sigholt safe – apart from the one notable exception when the infant Drago had tricked her into allowing Gorgrael access to Sigholt – and she was good company for nights when sleep refused to come.

“Do you wish to pass an hour or so with me, Zenith?” the bridge asked hopefully. Even so fey a creation as the bridge still liked to gossip whenever the opportunity presented itself.

“No, bridge. I am sorry. Tonight I must go to Spiredore. Can you lead me there?”

“Of course. Where are you going?”

“Carlon.”

“Ah,” the bridge sighed. “I have heard many wondrous tales about Carlon. But wait … there. Spiredore awaits you.”

Zenith looked across the bridge. Normally it led to the roadway that ran the length of HoldHard Pass, but now the other side of the bridge connected into a misty blue tunnel at the end of which Zenith could see the stairway of Spiredore.

“I thank you, friend bridge,” she said, and stepped across.

If the bridge was unknown magic, then Spiredore was a hundred times the puzzlement and even more the magic. The tower that stood on the opposite shoreline of Grail Lake to Carlon belonged to Azhure, although it was as ancient, some whispered, as Grail Lake itself. Its interior was a maze of seemingly disconnected stairwells and corridors, but if one knew how to use Spiredore’s magic, those stairwells and corridors could take you just about anywhere you wished. Azhure had taught all her children – save Drago, of course – how to use the tower, and how particularly to enter it via the bridge at Sigholt.

Now Zenith stepped off the bridge and into the short corridor of blue mist that led to the interior of Spiredore. As powerful and knowledgeable an Enchanter as she was, all Zenith understood of this process was that somehow the bridge had called across the scores of leagues separating her from Spiredore, and the tower itself had reached out and formed this connection.

From the misty corridor Zenith entered Spiredore at one of its myriad balconies. Glancing quickly up and down, she saw a bizarre outcropping of disconnected balconies and stairs – and even some ladders – that lined the circular interior of the tower. None of them appeared to go anywhere.

“Spiredore,” she said firmly, “I wish to go to Carlon.”

And she walked to the nearest stairwell and stepped down.

Azhure had always impressed on her two winged daughters that they must never fly in Spiredore, as it was so strangely magical they might easily become disorientated and crash into a balcony, or even the floor of the tower. Zenith walked until she felt her calves begin to ache and then, just as she paused to rub them, she saw that around the next curve of the stairs was a flat floor.

Zenith smiled to herself. It was ever so in Spiredore. Just when you thought you could go no further, Spiredore delivered you to your destination.

Once on the floor Zenith saw a door before her, and through that door … through the door was the dawning air about Grail Lake, the harsh cries of the lake birds filling the air as they rose to meet the sun.

“I thank you, Spiredore,” she said as she passed through, closing the door gently behind her.

Outside the tower looked plain, even though it imposed with its height. Completely windowless, it climbed some one hundred paces into the crimson sky – the sun ascending almost directly behind it.

Zenith stood motionless for long minutes, drinking in the view of the tower, the lake, the stunning city rising on the far shore.

“How wrong I have been to so secrete myself in Sigholt,” she whispered, then sprang into the air with a glad cry, her arms wide as if to embrace the entire world.

Leagh was sitting at her mirror-table, brushing the tangles from her hair and trying to stop yawning.

There was a rush at the window, as if it had been struck by a great gust of air, and then a small pale fist was tapping impatiently at the panes of glass.

“Leagh!” a muffled voice called, “Leagh! Let me in!”

Leagh sat and stared for long minutes, unable to believe what she saw, before she finally roused herself enough to walk over and open the windows.

Zenith almost fell through, enveloping her friend in a great hug.

“Leagh! Leagh! You and Askam are to come to Sigholt – can you believe it?” Leagh just stared at her.

“And Zared is to be there, too! Come, sleepy-eyes, what shall you wear?”

Zenith did not think it wrong to give Leagh a day of hope and excitement. And it was true. After at least two years, Leagh would finally see Zared again.

5 Speaking Treason

Zared sat on his chair on the slightly raised dais in his reception gallery, trying to hold his temper. Generally he enjoyed holding open court, but this Thursday afternoon had brought such evil news he knew there would be little delight left in the day.

Ranged before him were six men, four peasants from his southern border with the West, and – for the gods’ sakes – Jannymire Goldman, the Master of the Carlonese Guilds himself, and one of his merchant cronies, Bransom Heavorand. The tidings they had brought would sour anyone’s day, Zared thought, let alone mine.

“A third … a third!” he muttered yet again. Obviously the guilds, as the merchants, would be crippled by the tax, but these peasants … gods! They’d had a third of their year’s grain confiscated!

“Gustus!” Zared called, and his captain of the guard stepped forward. “See that these peasants receive recompense from my treasury for their losses.”

Gustus nodded, and moved off. The peasants effused thanks to their Prince, then scurried after the captain.

Zared eyed Goldman thoughtfully. As Master of the Carlonese Guilds, Goldman was one of the most powerful non-noble men in Tencendor. He controlled not only great wealth, but was the voice of the traders, craftsmen and businessmen of Carlon and, by default, most of Tencendor. Why come north himself? And why complain to Zared? Surely his complaints would be more effective directed at Caelum?

“Askam will grow rich at your expense, good sirs,” Zared remarked.

“As yours,” murmured Heavorand.

Yes, as mine, Zared thought, his dark face remaining carefully neutral. Shall I now risk sending my goods to the southern markets via the Andeis Sea? But even pirates would not risk those treacherous waters, and Zared knew he’d lose considerably more than a third of his goods if they went south via the Andeis. Askam had him trapped. He had no choice but to send his goods via road, where they would be snaggled in the web of crossroad taxation posts, while his river transports would not escape the castle of Kastaleon, which sat with its brood of archers on the great central bend of the Nordra like a rabid spider itching to spit its venom at tax evaders.

Gods, what was Askam doing to the people of his own province if he could inflict this hardship on the North?

“It is strange to see you so far north,” Zared said to Goldman. “And at my house.”

Goldman shrugged expressively. “It is a long story, my Prince, and one not suited to this reception gallery.” He looked meaningfully at Zared.

Zared hesitated slightly before he spoke. “My dinner table is ever lacking in long stories, gentlemen. May I perhaps invite you to dine with me this evening?”

Goldman bowed. “I thank you, Sir Prince. Heavorand and I will be pleased to accept your –”

The twin doors at the end of the gallery burst open and two men strode through, Gustus at their heels.

Zared’s mouth sagged, then he snapped it shut, keeping his seat only with an extraordinary effort as Herme, Earl of Avonsdale, and Theod, Duke of Aldeni, stopped three paces away from the dais, saluting and bowing.

Goldman and Heavorand, who had quickly stepped aside for the noblemen, shared a glance that was both surprised and knowing.

“Herme? Theod? What brings you here in such haste? I had no warning that you –”

“Forgive us, Zared, but this news cannot wait,” Herme said. More formality should have been employed, but Herme had something to say, and he wished to waste no time. Besides, Zared was an old friend and one-time family member; Isabeau had been Herme’s sister.

To one side Theod fidgeted. He, too, was a close friend of Zared’s, and his higher ranking than Herme should have seen him speak first. But Herme was older and had the longer acquaintance with Zared.

“Sir?” Gustus put in to one side, but no-one listened to him.

“If it’s about Askam’s new taxes, then I have already heard it,” Zared said, gesturing towards Goldman and Heavorand.

Herme and Theod glanced at them, then looked back at Zared.

“My friend,” Herme said, “matters have come to a head. We cannot –”

“Sir?” Gustus said again, but was again ignored.

“– endure under such taxation! Belial must be turning over in his grave! I suggest, and Theod agrees with me, that we must take this matter to Caelum instantly.”

“Sir!” Gustus all but shouted.

“Gustus, what is it?” Zared said shortly. Never had he had open court like this! Were half the merchants and nobles of the West en route to complain to him?

“Sir,” Gustus said, “one of the Lake Guard has this minute landed with a summons from StarSon Caelum.”

Every eye in the reception gallery was riveted on the captain of the guard.

“A summons?” Zared asked quietly.

“Sir Prince, StarSon Caelum summons the heads of the Five to Council, to be held at Sigholt three weeks hence.”

Zared stared at him, then shifted his gaze back to Herme and Theod. “I seem to be holding a dinner party this evening. Would you two gentlemen care to join me?”

Goldman placed his fork and knife across his plate, and decided it was time to direct the conversation to more important matters. So far they’d discussed everything from the weave of Corolean silk to the exceptional salinity of the Widowmaker Sea, and Goldman was tired of the niceties. He smiled at the young, impish Duke Theod across the table. Theod was a rascal, but good-hearted, and once he’d grown five or six more years, and survived a tragedy or two, he would become as fine a Duke as his grandfather, Roland, whom Goldman remembered well from his youth.

“You must have ridden hard to reach Severin from Aldeni, Duke Theod, as must,” Goldman glanced at Herme, “your companion … who had to come yet further.”

“Herme and I were both at my home estates, Goldman. We share a common interest in the management of the Western Ranges.”

Goldman nodded to himself; Theod’s home estates were close to his northern border with Zared. No wonder they’d managed to get here so quickly. “And no doubt you were both as horrified as Heavorand and myself to hear of Askam’s new taxes.”

“No doubt,” Herme said carefully. He was not quite sure of Goldman, nor of the motives which saw him at Zared’s court.

“Enough,” Zared said, throwing his napkin on the table and leaning back in his chair. “Goldman, you came north to say something. Say it.”

“Sir Prince, as you know, Prince Askam’s taxation measures will place an unfair burden on many Tencendorians, rich as well as poor, traders as well as peasants.”

Goldman paused and looked about the room, pretending to gather his thoughts.

“Yet if Askam’s taxation measures affect poor and wealthy, peasant and noble alike,” he continued, “these taxes do differentiate between types of people.”

The entire table stilled. Heavorand, who knew what was coming, looked hard at the napkin in his lap. But the other three men’s eyes were riveted on Goldman’s face.

“Continue, good Master Goldman,” Zared said.

“Sir Prince, Askam’s measures affect those people living in the West and North, not those living in the rest of Tencendor.”

“And your point is …?”

Goldman took a deep breath. “Sir Prince, the Icarii and Avar do not feel the strain of Askam’s petty taxation, yet the Acharites –”

“Be careful with your phraseology,” Zared said quietly.

“– yet the human population of the West and the North, good Prince, are direly affected by it. Sir Prince, there are many among the Achar – ah, the western and northern populations of Tencendor – who stoutly believe that Askam’s taxations are unfair in that they discriminate against one race out of three.”

“The Ravensbundmen are affected by it as well,” Herme put in carefully.

“Sir Duke, the Ravensbund only trade with the people of the North. They care not if Askam starts demanding a life per cargo of goods transported through the West.”

Zared steepled his fingers before his face and pretended an interest in them. “And so your request is …?”

“That you raise the issue with StarSon Caelum at the Council of Five, Sir Prince. StarSon is the only one with the authority to rebuke Askam. To force him to rescind the tax.”

That had not been the original request that Goldman and Heavorand had come north with. Their plans had been hastily revised with the news of the Council of Five. But they were not dismayed. Far from it. StarSon Caelum had played right into their hands.

“The tax is the very reason Caelum has called the Council, and Caelum is a reasonable man,” Zared said. “I am sure he will listen to what I have to say. So your lengthy trip north was needless, Goldman. I have ever intended to raise this issue.”

“Zared,” Herme began, “I will not rest until I know that Caelum has clearly understood what hardship this tax will impose –”

“Do you doubt my ability to state the case, Herme?”

“Not at all, my friend. But I think it important that Caelum listens to someone from Askam’s own province, as well as your objections. If only you speak against it, well …”

All knew what he meant. The history of conflict between Askam and Zared was well known.

Zared opened his mouth to speak, but was forestalled by Goldman.

“Sir Prince, Earl Herme speaks wisely. Caelum needs to hear from the peoples of the West, as much as from you. I suggest that Heavorand and myself will be as suitable witnesses as the Duke and Earl.”

“Are you saying that I should take you all with me to Sigholt?”

Zared’s four guests looked at him steadily. “Ah!” he said, giving in. “Very well. Your support will be useful.”

“There is one other associated issue, Sir Prince.” Goldman’s voice was tense, and Zared looked at him sharply.

“Out with it, then.” He waved his servants forward to clean away the plates.

Goldman waited until the men had gone. “Sir Prince, many among the human race of Tencendor, the Acharites, my Lord Zared, for I am not afraid to use the term, feel that Askam’s taxes are not only unfair, but illegal.”

“And why is that, Goldman?”

“The talk of the taverns and the streets of Carlon argues that Askam is not the legal overlord of the West, Sir Prince.” Goldman paused, gathered his courage and spoke his treason. “Most Acharites believe that you are.”

Silence.

Zared’s eyes regarded Goldman closely over his fingers. “Yes?”

“Sir Prince, when Axis created the nation of Tencendor he created Belial as Prince of the West. Few were loath to speak out against that. Belial was a loved man, and remains a loved memory. But his elevation essentially replaced the office of King of Achar. Axis destroyed the throne of Achar after he defeated his brother, Borneheld. Zared, you are the only legitimate heir to the throne of Achar.”

Herme leaned back in his chair. True, true and true, good Goldman, he thought. I could not have put it better myself. Speak on, man.

Goldman did indeed hurry on. “Sir Prince, you may have been disinherited of a crown, but more importantly, the Acharites have been disinherited of their throne and their nationhood.”

Zared spoke again, his voice now noticeably tight. “Continue.”

“Have not the Icarii, the Avar and the Ravensbund their leaders, their titular heads? Yet the Acharites have lost their monarchy and, in so losing, their pride. Sir Prince, why is it that the Icarii, Avar and Ravensbund retained or gained kings when the Acharites lost theirs?”

“Perhaps,” Herme put in carefully, for this was something Zared could not say without proving disloyal to at least one of his brothers, “it is because Borneheld, as King of Achar, was far too closely allied with the Seneschal and pursued a policy of hatred and war towards the Avar and Icarii. Axis rightly wanted to ensure that would never happen again.”

Goldman looked directly at Zared. “Sir Prince, I am not asking you to resurrect the beliefs of the Seneschal, only your people’s pride and nationhood. Prince Zared,” his voice slowed and he stressed every word, “your people want you back. They want their King. With few exceptions, western Tencendor would rise up to back your claim.”

Goldman glanced at Herme and Theod, hoping he had not read them incorrectly. “True, Sir Duke? Sir Earl?”

“We would not speak against it,” Theod said slowly.

Herme hesitated, then said curtly, “No king of Achar ever treated us as vilely as Askam does.”

“You all mouth treason!” Zared said, and pushed his chair back as if he intended to stand. “I do not intend to –”

“Treason?” Heavorand repeated. “Is it treason to speak of that which is our wish and your inheritance?”

Zared had stilled, his face expressionless.

“They are right, Zared,” Theod added. “Right! Achar needs its King back! Look how Askam is tearing the heart and soul out of the West!”

“May I remind you, Theod,” Zared said very carefully, “that as a Duke of the West, you are under Askam’s direct overlordship?”

“As am I,” Herme said, “and yet I find myself agreeing with both Theod and these two good merchants here.”

“Recreating the position of King of Achar would tear Tencendor apart,” Zared observed, but his tone was milder, and his eyes thoughtful.

“It is going to tear apart anyway,” Goldman said very quietly. “The tensions between Acharite and the other races would see war within a generation. You understand the Acharite perception of injustice, Zared. You share it. Sir Prince, you are rightful heir to the throne of Achar. Take it. Take it and direct some of this tension rather than letting it swell out of control. Take it … sire.”

When Goldman and Heavorand retired, Zared waved at Herme and Theod to remain.

He sat motionless, silent, for a long time before he finally spoke.

“My friends, I do not know what to think. My parents raised me to believe in Tencendor, in Axis’ and then Caelum’s right to rule over all races. They raised me to believe that the Achar nation, and its monarchy, was dead.”

“Zared,” Herme said. “Re-establishing the monarchy of Achar is not treason. As with FreeFall, Isfrael and Sa’Domai, an Acharite king would still owe homage and fealty to the Throne of the Stars. Any discussion of reclaiming the throne of Achar is not mouthing treason against Caelum, only discussing what many – nay, most – people in the West and North want.”

Zared was silent, remembering how he had looked at the circlet on Priam’s brow and wondered how well it – and the throne – would fit him.

“Where do your loyalties lie, Herme? Theod?” he eventually asked. “With whom?”

“With StarSon Caelum,” Herme said unhesitatingly. “First.”

“And then with you,” Theod finished. “Goldman has said much of what was in our hearts as well. Zared, if both the Master of the Guilds in Carlon, as well as two of the West’s most powerful nobles, have come to your doorstep with the same speeches on their lips and hopes in their hearts, how can you refuse to consider their words?”

“This whole issue has been prompted by Askam’s taxes,” Zared said. “What happens if Caelum forces him to rescind them? What then?”

“No!” Theod said. “These taxes are but the final straw. Zared, the ‘issue’ is fed by the fact that for decades resentment has grown among the Acharites at the way they have been treated. Yes, the SunSoar order is great and good, but it doesn’t change the fact that the Acharites have been denuded of their monarch and their nationhood. Man, listen to me! In you they can see the legitimate heir, and in the North they can see what prosperity awaits them under your rule!”

“This problem is not going to go away, Zared,” Herme said. “Not so long as Askam – or a Prince of the West – remains.”

“I will think on what you have said this evening,” Zared said, then raised his eyes from the fork he’d been fidgeting with. “There is something else I think should be considered.”

“Yes?” Herme asked.

“How will Askam react at this Council? We all know how bad his debts are, we know he needs the monies the taxes will raise.”

“And we all know how he hates you … and your success,” Theod said. “Look how he has striven to frustrate your heart these past years.”

Zared looked at him sharply, then chose to ignore the last remark. He did not like to think of what implications this evening’s conversation had for himself and Leagh, nor even for the peace of Tencendor itself. How would Caelum react? “My friends, I think it best to be prepared for whatever this Council might bring.”

Zared paused, then spoke his own treason. “I have given orders to move the bulk of my troops out of Severin to within several leagues of Jervois Landing. If I might suggest …”

Herme grinned. “Where would you like our troops moved?”

6 The SunSoars at Home

Leagh sat with Zenith, watching RiverStar preen before her mirror. Leagh wished she were in any chamber but this one – even Drago must surely be a less disagreeable companion than Zenith’s elder sister! She shifted herself into a more comfortable position in her chair, and let her mind wander from the sisters’ conversation.

She had been in Sigholt over two weeks. Waiting. Waiting for the other heads of the Five Families to arrive. Waiting for Caelum to put her out of her misery and tell her his decision regarding her marriage. Waiting for Zared.

Once Askam had sent his escort north via riverboat and horse, Zenith had led Leagh, Askam and their two body servants into Spiredore. Leagh had never been in the tower previously, and its magic – as also the evidence of Zenith’s power – had almost overwhelmed her. Askam had remained stoutly silent, but Leagh had noticed that even he had paled when, emerging at the top of one of the bizarre stairwells, they had beheld Sigholt at the end of an enchanted corridor of blue mist.

On her first day in Sigholt, Leagh had been consumed with excitement. What would Caelum say? Where was Zared? But apparently it was only she and Askam granted such an unconventional (and speedy) conveyance to Sigholt; everyone else called to the Council had to arrive by more mundane means. Zared was still far distant. And Caelum proved as great a disappointment. At first Leagh had managed to convince herself that Caelum had asked her to Sigholt for good news – surely he would have preferred to have sent bad via a courier? But Caelum remained steadfastly silent at her repeated pleas for his word. He would wait until Zared was here. Then he would inform them of his decision.

Bad news, then. Leagh was miserably sure of it.

So she spent her days either wandering the shores of the lake by herself, or talking with Zenith. Askam was almost as unreachable as Caelum; her brother spent many hours each day either closeted with Caelum, or at weapon practice with Sigholt’s master-of-arms.

But surely her waiting was almost over. Over the past two days FreeFall SunSoar, Talon of the Icarii, Prince Yllgaine of Nor and the Ravensbund Chief Sa’Domai had all arrived. Sigholt awaited only Isfrael (if he chose to appear) and Zared – how far could he be?

Zared. How could she live life without him?

Leagh could not answer that question, and preferred not to think on it, thus here she was this afternoon, sitting with Zenith, listening to RiverStar prattle on about love.

RiverStar tilted her lovely head before her looking glass, admiring the curve of her throat. Her fingers lingered at the base of throat and breast, remembering the touch of her lover. She smiled and shifted her gaze in the glass, first looking at Leagh, sitting still and disconsolate, and then her sister.

“Poor Leagh is in no position to discuss the arts of love, Zenith,” she said. “But tell me, sister, have you taken a lover yet, or do you yet cling to your chastity?”

“I have not yet met the man of my heart, sister,” Zenith said, sitting by a small fire.

RiverStar’s eyes hardened at the implied criticism in Zenith’s tone. Zenith was truly a prude if she did not while away the time at Sigholt with a lover. Stars! But what else was there to do in Sigholt? And what else was the body for but to be used? All Zenith ever did was murmur incoherent words about the right lover every time some birdman dared touch her flesh or invite her into his bed.

RiverStar twisted about on her stool and stared at her younger sister. Zenith had all of their mother’s dark good looks, and more. So where had she inherited the reluctance to put them to enjoyable use?

“All this yearning for your imaginary lover will see you in your grave before you are bedded, Zenith. Let me find you a lover.” RiverStar paused. “And you, too, Leagh. Zared is a lean man, and reaching mortal middle age. No doubt he will tire early in bed. Let me find you an Icarii lover.”

Embarrassed, Leagh dropped her eyes, and Zenith glanced at her before responding to RiverStar’s taunt. “Spare your energies, sister, and find one for yourself.”

RiverStar chuckled deep in her throat. “I have found me a lover. The best yet. He kept me awake far into last night and exhausted me all over again at first light. There is none that can match him.”

Zenith was not very interested. RiverStar claimed every month that she had found a better lover than the last. Besides, this conversation could hardly be doing Leagh any good. Before she could say anything to redirect RiverStar’s mind, her sister continued.

“I think I shall wed him,” she said, and smiled in satisfaction as she watched Zenith’s surprise.

“Marry him? Is he an Enchanter? What is his name?”

RiverStar toyed with a curl of her hair and tried to look mysterious. “Well … he is an Enchanter of sorts, and he has unimaginable power. Can you guess his name?”

Zenith frowned and shook her head. “RiverStar, come on, tell me. Are you serious about taking a husband?” She couldn’t imagine RiverStar making anything but a very bad wife. What vows of fidelity she managed to mouth at the marriage would undoubtedly be broken within weeks.

“No, you are wrong, Zenith. I could be faithful to this man for an eternity. He is …” she shivered theatrically, and ran one hand down her thigh, “… more than enough to keep me satisfied. Dangerous. Darkly esoteric. Insatiable.” She almost growled the last word, and ran her tongue about her lips.

Gods, thought Leagh. He must have the stamina of an ox and a wall of steel about his heart to survive RiverStar! Leagh hoped RiverStar did not think to use her Enchanter powers to read her mind – the images jumbling about there were not very complimentary to RiverStar.

“Surely such a lover could only be a SunSoar,” Zenith observed, more than a little suspicious. “Who?”

Zenith was sure RiverStar was making this up. SunSoars were fated to truly love only another SunSoar, cursed to desire only their own blood. RiverStar could not be this satisfied with anyone but a SunSoar male – and who was available for them in Sigholt? No-one but first blood, their brothers and their father, and first blood was Forbidden.

She paused with her mouth half-open. No, not quite. There was always –

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” RiverStar said, and Zenith stood up in frustration, determined to find another topic of conversation. Did RiverStar think of nothing but the pleasures of a bedding?

“What else is there to think of in this foggy palace?” RiverStar asked, looking out the window to where the magical blue mists shrouded Sigholt.

“There are mysteries to contemplate,” Zenith said quietly, moving over to the window. “Dreams to examine.” Her voice had faded, and she was lost in her own thoughts now, not listening to RiverStar.

“Mysteries, bah!” RiverStar waved her hand impatiently. “The only mystery I wish to explore exists in the junction of –”

“In you the Icarii inclination towards obscenity has flowered into its full, foul-smelling ripeness, RiverStar,” a man’s voice said from the doorway.

“Drago,” RiverStar said, and leaned back in her chair, smoothing her filmy gown over her body. “My dear, sweet twin brother, what bitterness you display! Ever since our mother reversed your blood order and disinherited you from your Icarii powers you have been absolutely incapable of bedding anyone save the girls who sweep the kitchens. Think, Zenith, of all the Icarii female Enchanters he must covet,” she ran her hand over a breast, “and yet whom he cannot hope to bed in the face of their laughter and rejection.”

“RiverStar –” Zenith began.

“Would you beg to have me, Drago?” RiverStar pinched out her nipple. “Would you roll on the floor before me and beg?”

“Whore,” Drago said flatly, and stepped into the room. He turned as if to speak to Leagh, sitting in such embarrassed silence she wished all the SunSoar siblings would just go and find somewhere else to quarrel, but RiverStar had not yet finished with her brother.

“Wouldn’t he have made a useless Enchanter, Zenith?” she said, pretending a thoughtful expression. “But perhaps he would have expended his power using the Star Dance to burn up beetles on the parapets.”

Zenith opened her mouth, and then closed it again. What could she do now that she hadn’t tried previously? The gulf between RiverStar and Drago had grown over the past ten years as Drago had felt the first stirrings of age within his human body. RiverStar – shallow creature that she was – could not help but taunt his mortality. Drago could do nothing but meet her taunts with either the pretence of indifferent silence or the uselessness of sarcasm. That they had once shared a womb meant nothing to them now.

She saw Drago turn his gaze from Leagh to her, and watched his own eyes harden as he saw the sympathy in hers. Drago did not want anyone fighting his wars for him.

“But there is SunSoar blood in you yet,” RiverStar murmured, and her hand slid down her belly, her fingers daring, “and perhaps it craves SunSoar blood. Methinks you do not find that among your kitchen maids.”

Drago took a great breath, held it, and turned his back on RiverStar. “Leagh, Caelum would like you to –”

“Aha!” RiverStar laughed. “Our splendid leader has found a purpose for this all but useless man who stands before us. A messenger boy. Not an occupation imbued with pride, Drago, but perhaps it gives you some small purpose in life.”

Her barb finally found its mark. Drago whipped round to face his sister. “You’re nothing but a cold bitch, RiverStar,” he said with icy flatness. “You’d be happy enough left with a hound to couple with.”

He, in his turn, had stung deeply.

“You pathetic little human man!” RiverStar hissed, her face twisted with loathing. “I shall laugh over your grave! I will enjoy my lover on the sods above your mouldering flesh! I will –”

“That is enough,” Zenith said sharply. “Drago, what is it?”

Drago wrenched his eyes away from RiverStar, two red spots of anger in his cheeks, and half bowed to Leagh. To Zenith’s amazement his voice came out soft, almost gentle, and she wondered at the effort it must have cost him.

“Princess Leagh, I was walking up the main staircase when my brother Caelum called me to find you. He wishes your presence in the courtyard. The word from the sentries is that Zared and his escort ride towards the bridge.”

And then he stepped forward, and with the grace of a courtier offered a shocked and pale Leagh his arm and support.

7 Disturbing Arrivals

Leagh could not control the skidding of her heart, nor the sudden cramp in her chest that made each breath a painful effort. Calm down! she berated herself, but it did not help. Zared was only moments away, and it had been so long since she’d seen him.

Drago did not say a word as he led her down the corridors and stairwells of Sigholt. Leagh leaned on him without embarrassment – without him, she thought, she could not walk – and Drago made no complaint.

It was late afternoon, and the Keep threw a deep shadow over the courtyard. Leagh stumbled slightly as she and Drago walked outside, and he tightened his arm and drew her in a little closer.

“Hope,” she thought she heard him say, but when she glanced at his face it was expressionless, his eyes elsewhere, and so she thought she had imagined it.

There were several ranks of soldiers lined up in the courtyard, their hands ready on the hilts of their swords to provide a welcoming salute. Caelum, dressed all in black, walked forward to greet her.

Askam was two or three steps behind.

Leagh saw Caelum exchange a hard glance with Drago, and she felt Drago stiffen at her side, but she had no time for further observation of the brothers’ enmity.

“Zared?” she asked Caelum, and was stunned to hear her voice come out cool. Calm, even.

“A minute away,” Caelum said. “No more.”

And, indeed, at that moment Leagh heard the bridge call out to Zared, welcoming him. The bridge did not challenge him, for Zared had been born within Sigholt’s walls, and she knew him well.

Almost before the bridge had finished her greeting there came the clatter of many hooves on the bridge, and Leagh had a moment of panic.

Gods, what was she wearing? A pale blue linen gown that could be called serviceable, nothing more. And her hair! Leagh’s free hand patted at her head, remembering with horror that this morning she’d left her hair in nothing but a single thick braid down her back.

“Leagh,” Zenith’s soft voice said behind her, “you look lovely. Do not fret.”

I should be greeting Zared in the audience chamber of our palace in Carlon, Leagh thought, resplendent in satins and jewels, not here in this dairymaid’s gown – and she had no more time for thought, for at that moment Zared rode into the courtyard.

She was the first thing he saw. Absolutely stunned, Zared pulled his horse to such a sudden, skittery halt that Herme and Theod, who rode directly behind him, had to rein their own mounts sharply to one side to avoid him.

“Leagh?” he whispered.

At that precise moment the ranked soldiers presented their swords and standards, and a trio of trumpeters high in Sigholt’s walls blew out a clarion of welcome.

In the sudden presentation of arms, and the flags and banners fluttering about, Zared lost sight of Leagh.

Frustrated, he leaped from his horse, ducked under its neck … and came face to face with an impassive StarSon Caelum.

“Prince Zared, I welcome you to Sigholt. May its doors always swing wide to greet you, and its bridge always sing you a greeting.”

Damn these polite receptions! Zared cursed. He tried to see past Caelum, but he only saw Askam further back in the gloom, and the first of the ranks of stony-faced soldiers.

“I thank you, StarSon,” he replied evenly. “I, as must my other companions among the Five, find myself somewhat surprised to be so suddenly called to Council.”

“You know why you are here,” Caelum said, his voice toneless, and Zared wondered how long Askam had been in Sigholt, and what he’d managed to whisper into Caelum’s ear. While not as close as their fathers had been, Caelum and Askam were nevertheless friends. “This disunity between you and Askam must finally be put to rest.”

Askam had whispered nothing complimentary, Zared thought. “Then I welcome the summons, StarSon. I wish for nothing more than peace and harmony within Tencendor.”

Caelum’s eyes had slipped behind Zared. “Herme? Theod? Why do you travel with Zared?”

“We met the Prince of the North coming through the lower Urqhart Hills,” Herme said easily, “and chose to ride the final leagues with him. Theod and myself thought to have our voices heard at this Council, as the weighty matter before it affects all those living in the West. As in the North.”

Far back in the column of Zared’s escort, Goldman and Heavorand pulled their hoods a little closer over their faces. No doubt Caelum’s enchanted eyesight could spot them if he chose, but they did not want Askam to see them. Their business was best conducted without their Prince knowing they were at Sigholt.

“Who gave you permission to attend this Council?” Askam stepped forward to Caelum’s shoulder. “Theod? You should be at home, attending your seasonal county courts. Herme? You should know better than to present your uninvited self at Sigholt!”

Theod was lost for words, but Herme replied smoothly. “I did not realise our freedom of movement – our choice of movement – was also subject to your whim, Sir Prince.”

“Enough!” Caelum snapped. Truly, Theod and Herme should have known better than to ride in with Zared as if he were their prince, not Askam! But Herme had also made a telling point, and Caelum did not regret the chance to hear from someone other than Askam how the West was responding to the taxes.

“You may stay, Sir Duke and Sir Earl,” he said, his tone more even now. “I shall organise an afternoon to speak with you, but I also reserve the right to invite you or bar you from Council as I please.”

He turned slightly and called to his steward. “Runton? Prepare chambers suitable for the Duke and Earl. Zared, perhaps you might like to dine with me tonight?”

Zared ignored his invitation. “Caelum,” he said softly. “What is Leagh doing here?”

Caelum stared at him a moment, then waved Leagh forward.

She hesitated, and the man at her side – Zared noticed with some surprise who it was – spoke softly in her ear. Leagh gave the smallest of nods, and then walked forward calmly to stand at Caelum’s side.

“Zared,” she said simply, her eyes fixed on his.

Zared opened his mouth, found he could say nothing, and so stepped forward, took her hand, and kissed her palm.

“I think we will resolve many things in Council,” Caelum said softly. “Not only the issue of taxes.”

The evening meal, held with due pomp in the Great Hall of Sigholt, was the longest Zared had ever endured in his life. All the heads of the Five were there, as were their captains, their lieutenants, Caelum’s brother and sisters, DareWing FullHeart and the other Crest-Leaders of the Strike Force, the mayor and entire council of Lakesview, their wives, as well as WingRidge CurlClaw, SpikeFeather TrueSong and fifteen assorted Enchanters.

Leagh … Leagh was seated not only across the broad banquet table, but seven places down! Zared had not the chance to speak one word to her, let alone touch her, hold her.

If the decision on their marriage was to be discussed – and then determined – in Council, then Zared knew what that decision would be. Damn Caelum – and every other member of the Council – to everlasting crippling arthritis for what they were going to do to him and Leagh! Did they not bed as they chose? Had not every one of them picked their own mate … save Caelum, of course, who yet lingered unmarried.

Zared went through the meal in a state resembling an angry fugue, replying only in monosyllables when he was addressed, pushing his meat about his plate until it went cold and congealed in its gravy, then tapping his fingers irritably against the linen-clothed table until Caelum finally rose and departed.

As the rest of the company scraped back chairs and got to their feet, Zared managed to catch Leagh’s eye, but no more. Askam placed a tight hand about her elbow and whisked her away before Zared could slip about the table to speak to her.

He stood, fuming with silent rage, as Herme paused behind him.

“Think how marriage to her would cement your claim to the throne, my prince,” he whispered. “Askam will never sire an heir. She would bring Achar to your marriage bed.”

Zared turned to stare at Herme, a muscle working in his cheek. “I want her as my wife because I love her!” he finally seethed. “Not for her inheritance!”

He pushed past the Earl of Avonsdale and strode away, but all he could think about on the long walk back to his chambers was whether or not, on that night atop Sigholt five years ago, his unspeaking mind had only seen Leagh standing before him … or the rich acres of the West as well.

Zenith was preparing for sleep when the gentle knock came at her door. Surprised, not knowing who could wish to speak with her this late, she slipped a wrap over her shoulders and opened the door.

Zared stood there, his face lined and tired, his eyes dark with unreadable emotion. “Zenith, you and I have always understood each other. Please, bring Leagh to me.”

Zenith stared at him, her mind in turmoil. By the gods, how she felt for both of them! Surely they deserved at least a private word – but, if left in private, how far might that “word” go? Their love was fraught with so much political tension, it carried such enormous consequences, that to even let them see each other …

Should she tell him that Caelum would not let the marriage take place? That there was no hope? No, there was no need. She could see by the pain in Zared’s eyes that he already understood.

“Zenith,” he said, reaching out and placing a hand on her arm. “Do this for me, and do it for Leagh.”

Zenith hesitated only a heartbeat longer, then she gave a curt nod. “Come with me.”

The corridors were darkened, only a few subdued torches lit to cast pitiful pools of light in isolated corners. Shadows flickered and lifted, seeming to envelop them in waves and then retreat, as if they had moved too far from the total darkness for their own comfort. Zenith led Zared to a room on the floor above his, at the end of the corridor.

He stopped, surprised. “This was my mother’s chamber!”

“And so here came Magariz to Rivkah, before they confessed their love to the world. Now, Zared, listen to me. I will wait outside. Keeping watch – but not only for those who might tread this way. I can also sense you, and what you do … do you understand?”

Zared nodded, his expression bitter.

“If you try to bed with her,” Zenith continued, her tone now as hard as Zared’s eyes, “I will know and I will stop you. You may speak with her, you may hold her, but you will not have the chance to win the West via the trickery of an illegitimate child!”

“Caelum has an utterly loyal sister in you!” Zared hissed, furious that Zenith would intrude upon them with her power.

“I am utterly loyal to Tencendor,” Zenith said quietly, holding Zared’s stare. “Treat Leagh with the respect that I have for the peace of our land.”

“Let me in, damn you!”

And Zenith opened the door.

The chamber was even darker than the corridor, for Leagh had apparently shuttered her windows tightly closed. Zared stood, trying to get his bearings, wondering if Leagh had heard his whispered conversation with Zenith.

Apparently not, for the room was quiet save for the soft sound of gentle breathing, and Zared moved carefully towards the source.

His hip banged into the corner of a table, and Zared halted, his eyes stinging with the pain, his ears straining to hear if Leagh had woken.

No, she still breathed deep in sleep across the room, and Zared resumed his movement, now with a slight limp. He’d never wished Enchanter powers for himself until this moment. By all the stars above, he wished he could see where he was going!

But even as he thought that, a pale bed cover resolved itself from the darkness, and under it Zared could see the still form of Leagh.

He moved closer – how could he best wake her without startling her into a loud cry? It would hardly do his cause good to have Caelum – or Askam, gods forbid! – burst in on them.

But even as he hesitatingly reached down a hand, Leagh sighed, turned her head, and opened her eyes.

“Am I dreaming,” she whispered, “or do you truly stand before me, Zared?”

“Oh, gods, Leagh!” he cried softly, brokenly, and he sat down on the bed and gathered her into his arms.

Outside, Zenith tensed, but she gradually relaxed, tears coming to her eyes. What would it be like to love like this? To be loved this deeply? She withdrew her presence a little from the chamber to give them more privacy, although she still maintained watch. They could spend the hours before dawn together, but then she would interrupt, and take Zared from Leagh.

The tears trickled down her cheeks. This was likely to be the only time they would ever have together.

Then, without warning, a sense of doom so profound it left her gasping washed over her.

Zenith groaned and bent almost double, clutching at the wall for support.

What was wrong, what had disturbed her this deeply? Zared and Leagh? No, they were close, but not too close. It was something else. Something … something so fundamentally wrong that the very Star Dance seemed to waver before it beat on as strong as ever.

The sensation of imminent doom faded almost as soon as it had washed through her, but it left Zenith with a feeling of such fright that she spent the rest of that night crouched outside Leagh’s door, wrapped in enchantment so thick that a spear would have bounced off an arm’s distance away before it could have touched her.

Zared, Leagh and Zenith were not the only wakeful ones that night. Caelum also paced the corridors, returning to his own chambers from whatever nocturnal mission he’d set himself to.

He also felt the sudden alteration in the Star Dance, but Caelum was of infinitely more power than Zenith, and he knew that it had been caused by the sudden intrusion of a powerful Enchanter somewhere in Tencendor.

There was someone different about. Who?

Who?

Caelum stood in the centre of his chamber, seeking, probing through Tencendor with his power … feeling out whoever it was who had so suddenly disturbed the Star Dance.

He twitched, and an expression of utter horror came over his face.

“WolfStar!” he whispered, then he tipped back his head and screamed. “WolfStar!”

And then he vanished.

8 Maze Gate

In unconscious imitation of the ancient madness of WolfStar SunSoar, the Ferryman stood wrapped in his ruby cloak at the lip of the Star Gate. Even though the Icarii had reclaimed the Star Gate, few visited there except on ceremonial occasions, and Orr was alone in the circular chamber.

Blue light chased about the dome, and the sound of the universe roared through, demanding, seductive, entreating.

Orr ignored all of it. “There … again!” he whispered, and trembled. “Again!”

There was a sound beyond that of the Star Dance, beyond that of the interstellar winds of the universe. A whisper, but a whisper of many voices.

Maddened voices. Demanding voices.

Orr shivered. What was it, this ravening pack of voices? Who were they? Why did they cry so?

What did they want?

“And again,” he said, his hands tightening about his cloak. “Who are they to disturb the peace of the stars so?”

“They claim to be my judgment, friend Ferryman.”

Orr jumped so badly he almost fell into the Star Gate. A hand closed about his arm, steadying him.

Orr turned to see who had surprised him, then squealed in terror and stumbled back several paces. “WolfStar!”

Was anyone safe about the Star Gate with this renegade present?

“Peace, Ferryman,” WolfStar said. “I am not the same madman who cast so many children to their deaths.”

Orr was not so sure. Could four thousand years abate such madness? WolfStar may have assisted Axis SunSoar defeat Gorgrael, but Orr’s fear of him was still strong. He carefully backed away yet further.

WolfStar ignored him and stepped over to the Star Gate. Its pulsing blue light washed over his face, turning his copper curls almost as violet as his eyes. For several minutes he stood silent, tense, then his shoulders relaxed slightly and he gave Orr a small, humourless smile.

“They call themselves my judgment,” he said again, “but they are yet far away. We are safe. They will never find the Star Gate again.”

“They?” Orr said. “They? I hear voices. Many voices. And they are angry voices. There is …” He searched for the right word. “There is a pack of them.”

WolfStar’s eyes narrowed. “A ‘pack’, Ferryman?”

“They hunt,” Orr said very quietly, beginning to understand. “They hunt for you.” He was silent briefly, turning a sudden thought over in his mind. “They are those you murdered.”

WolfStar’s mouth twisted slightly and he looked back into the Star Gate. “Yes,” he said. “They yearn for my blood. And perhaps I do not blame them. But I am safe. They do not have the power or the skills to find their way back through the Star Gate. They will drift for eternity, calling my name.”

He did not seem distressed at the thought of what he’d condemned the children to.

“I have never heard them before.” Orr walked closer to the Star Gate, but he still kept a prudent distance from WolfStar.

WolfStar shrugged slightly. “They knew I would die eventually, and that – as all Enchanter-Talons – I would step through the Star Gate for my eternal rest. So they drift on the interstellar winds, looking for me. This is the first time they’ve drifted this close to the Star Gate.”

“But you evaded them before. You stepped back through into this world.”

“Yes, I did. When I died, and then stepped through, the children were in a far part of the universe, utterly lost. Before they drifted back my way I found the knowledge in death that returned me to life.”

That was only a very mild lie on WolfStar’s part. In truth, the power that had allowed him to return had actively sought him out.

Orr accepted WolfStar’s words. He had no doubt the Enchanter never wanted to re-encounter the hundreds of children – or his own wife – whom he had hurled to their deaths.

There was a movement in the shadow of one of the archways that circled the chamber, and both WolfStar and Orr turned towards it.

Caelum SunSoar, StarSon of Tencendor, stepped into the light. “Well, lonely wolf of the night,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on WolfStar, “it has been over forty years since you peered into my cradle and then crushed MorningStar’s head for the temerity of witnessing. Forty years for you to work your mischief. I know of you, WolfStar. You can accomplish a great deal in forty years.”

WolfStar sat down on the low wall of the Star Gate, unperturbed by Caelum’s abrupt appearance. His golden wings spread out to either side of his body, and he tilted his head quizzically, looking Caelum up and down. The intervening years have grown a great man, he decided, and power sits him easily.

And yet WolfStar wondered if Caelum had yet learned the power it would take to best him. He grinned. He doubted it.

“Well?” Caelum snapped, irritated by WolfStar’s demeanour.

“Well, what?”

WolfStar!

All three in the chamber heard it. WolfStar leapt off the wall and across the chamber in a single bound, and Caelum’s eyes narrowed. So frightened, WolfStar? Why? Why?

We’re coming, we’re coming … we hunger …

“They’re lying,” WolfStar said, recovering his poise. “Bluffing. They cannot come through.”

There was a sound in the chamber. Unusual, but rather like … a flock of birds sweeping through the sky.

Caelum locked eyes with Orr momentarily, sharing knowledge, then turned his gaze back to WolfStar. “And how can you be so sure? If you could step back through, then why can’t they?”

Orr faded back underneath one of the arches. He wanted nothing to do with the confrontation between these two.

WolfStar stared at Caelum before he answered. “You want answers, StarSon? Then I will give you some. But not here.”

“Not here where they can hear you, WolfStar? What is it that you have brought upon Tencendor now, renegade?”

Caelum took a step forward, but WolfStar only smiled at the implied threat. No-one could touch him. Except, perhaps …

“I have a fancy to see my grandchildren and a fancy to see what you have made of Sigholt,” he said, forcing his mind away from what else might be accompanying the children.

We’re coming, we’re coming … we hunger … And pray all gods in creation it is only you who shout my name!

“WolfStar! I demand answers! Do you think I am going to stand aside while your troubles tear Tencendor apart yet again?”

“Sigholt!” said WolfStar. “I will meet you and yours at Sigholt.”

“When?”

“Soon. A day. Wait.”

And then he vanished.

Caelum took a deep breath. Stars, what was going on? He peered into the Star Gate, becoming one with the Star Dance briefly, then shook himself and looked at Orr, still secreted in the shadows. “Have you heard these voices before?”

Orr shook his head. “Today was the first time. StarSon, they are not strong, and …”

“And?”

“And, perhaps to be expected. WolfStar murdered some two hundred and twelve Enchanters, including StarLaughter and the child she carried. I can well imagine that their souls have drifted four thousand years seeking vengeance. Pray their vengeance is directed only at WolfStar.”

“I shall throw the Enchanter through myself if it will appease their need,” Caelum said. “I think I will ask WingRidge to mount a guard here. I would not like us to be … surprised.”

“No need,” said the Ferryman. “I shall stand watch.” WolfStar stood before the gate. The gate to the Maze, not the Star Gate. Its wooden doors were closed – thankfully. WolfStar hoped to be far, far away if ever they opened.

Did anything else follow those voices towards the Star Gate?

His hands drifted over the strange inscription in the stone archway surrounding the gate. It had taken him many years to understand this language. The language of the ancients, or the Enemy, as their enemies referred to them.

The Enemy that had crashed through from the universe so many millennia ago, creating the Star Gate. Leaving behind its deadly cargo.

He silently cursed, and concentrated on the inscription. Yes, there, there and there. StarSon. As it had been for the past forty years. For three thousand years before that the inscription had only mentioned the vague term “Crusader”, but a year after the birth of Caelum the Maze had changed its mind and substituted “StarSon” for “Crusader”.

Now the symbol for StarSon trumpeted forth, again, and again, leaping out from the gate’s inscription. This time the Maze was certain.

Well might it be. It was the Maze which had taught WolfStar the Prophecy of the Destroyer, and then commanded him to write it down and do all in his power to ensure its eventual realisation. After he defeated Gorgrael, Axis had asked WolfStar if the Prophecy was nothing but idiot gabble for his own amusement. Then WolfStar had hedged. He’d said that certain knowledges had come to him beyond the Star Gate that made his return imperative – true enough. However, it was not the Prophecy itself that had persuaded him back through the Star Gate, but rather the Prophecy’s true author. The Maze.

The Prophecy had a very clear and direct purpose, and it had nothing at all to do with protecting Tencendor from Gorgrael.

Its only purpose had been to breed the champion the Maze needed. The Crusader.

WolfStar had always assumed that the Crusader would be Axis, but the Maze had never named him. Instead it had chosen Axis and Azhure’s son Caelum.

WolfStar nodded. Of course. He should have realised that the Crusader would need both Axis’ and Azhure’s blood.

Then a chill swept through WolfStar. If the Crusader had been born and was now named by the Maze, it meant the hour of need must be nigh.

What else followed those voices towards the Star Gate?

He’d had three thousand years to prepare himself for this moment, and yet WolfStar wished he had three score more three thousand years.

StarSon! StarSon! StarSon! the inscription about the Maze screamed. Aid me now!

WolfStar turned very slightly so he could see the row upon row of seated birdmen and women behind him. There were hundreds of them, seated in orderly ranks, slowly swaying from side to side in perfect unison as they regarded the gate with part reverence, part fear, part love.

“Are you true?” WolfStar asked softly.

“True to the StarSon,” replied the hundreds of voices.

On each of their chests glowed the golden knot.

9 WolfStar’s Explanation

Zared caught up with the Ravensbund Chief, Sa’Domai, on Sigholt’s main staircase.

“What's wrong, my friend? Why has Caelum summoned us this early?” Gods, he’d only been back in his private chamber a few minutes before the impassive Lake Guard was banging on his door!

Sa’Domai shrugged, the tiny bells in his braided hair jingling merrily. “I can think of no reason Caelum would pull us from our beds this early, Zared.”

“Not for Council, surely?”

His question was effectively answered as RiverStar and Zenith joined them from one of the landings. Neither had a seat on the Council. Zenith, Zared noticed, looked as haggard as he felt.

She shook her head at Zared’s enquiring glance, while RiverStar ignored both him and Sa’Domai. RiverStar had her own reasons for feeling tired this morning.

Below them Zared heard FreeFall softly greet Yllgaine of Nor, then both the Icarii Talon and the Nors Prince were behind them. Zared nodded greetings at them, noting that both wore worried expressions.

What was wrong? Invasion? Surely not – who would invade?

Have farflight scouts reported the troops I have mustering west of Jervois Landing? Zared wondered, fear turning his belly to ice. But he quelled the thought quickly, filling his mind with jumbling images of the landscape between Severin and Sigholt. This place was full of Enchanters – and the most powerful of all would be in this hastily convened gathering. Zared needed none of them reading his mind. Even Zenith had indicated last night that she owed her highest loyalty to Tencendor itself.

Where were Herme and Theod? Not called to this meeting, that was apparent. Were they already in chains in the dungeons? Were their confessions already being signed with their blood?

Stop it! Zared carefully arranged his face in a neutral expression. Rivkah had carefully nurtured her son’s vivid imagination, now Zared cursed it.

Caelum lived in the spacious apartments that had once belonged to his parents. The central chamber was large, but it now seemed crowded with people moving about, finding themselves seats or stools, murmuring greetings, raising eyebrows in puzzled anxiety.

“By the stars themselves,” muttered FreeFall SunSoar behind Zared, clapping a friendly hand on the prince’s shoulder. “I hope my nephew has had the foresight to order us breakfast!”

Zared nodded, smiling slightly. He respected FreeFall greatly. The Icarii Talon was an extraordinary birdman, not only because, as most of the SunSoars, he was exceptionally beautiful with his violet eyes and silvery white wings, but because he had once died for Axis, only to have the Star God himself plead for the return of his soul with the GateKeeper in the realms of the Underworld. FreeFall’s journey to the gates of death had changed the birdman. He was still fun-loving and quick-witted, but there was a depth of experience and knowledge about him, even an eerie stillness, that touched the souls of all in his presence.

FreeFall found a stool to sit on, folding his wings neatly behind him and his hands patiently in his lap. Yllgaine of Nor, his dark eyes mischievous and his person beautifully clothed and jewelled even this early in the morning, touched Zared on the elbow. “There, a couch … if we leap and shove and scream I believe we can get there before Askam drapes himself along it.”

Zared bit his cheek to stop himself grinning and followed Yllgaine, decorous and polite despite his words, across the room, and sat down next to him.

He chatted quietly with Yllgaine about inconsequential matters while looking about the chamber. Caelum, who had called everyone so hastily from their beds, had yet to make an appearance. All the Five were here. Askam was lounging against a window, and Sa’Domai had taken a stool next to FreeFall. As well as RiverStar and Zenith (who, Zared was amused to note, had sat as far away from her sister as possible), Caelum had also invited SpikeFeather TrueSong and WingRidge CurlClaw. Zared did not know either very well. Both, if not aloof, were in some undefinable way unapproachable. Besides, SpikeFeather now spent so much time with Orr the Ferryman it was little wonder that few among the Achari – human, dammit! – race knew him well.

The gathering had arranged themselves comfortably and were either quiet, or murmuring softly to their neighbours, when Caelum entered from a door hidden behind a curtain.

Zared’s eyes widened a little at the sight of him – Caelum had also spent a sleepless night, it seemed. He was dressed and groomed perfectly, but his eyes were lined and weary.

Something was worrying Caelum badly.

A knot of fear coiled about Zared’s belly. Had he seen any guards stationed in the main stairwell or the corridors as he’d come to Caelum’s chambers? No, but they could now be lining the walls, and the Strike Force could be wheeling outside the windows, for all he knew.

He caught eyes with Zenith. She shrugged slightly, but indicated with a small gesture of her head not to worry. Caelum had not discovered that Zared had spent so many hours with Leagh last night.

Maybe not that, Zared thought, but what else? Gods! Where was Herme? Theod?

Caelum walked to a spot before the unlit fireplace, so large and extensive that its mantel loomed above his head. “I am sorry to have called you here so early,” he said, “but something has happened that –”

The outer door opened and Drago walked through. Two steps inside he stopped, apparently astonished at the gathering in Caelum’s apartment.

He ran his eyes slowly about those assembled, his eyes lingering on Zenith and RiverStar, then he looked questioningly at Caelum. “Brother? I do beg your forgiveness for so intruding –”

Zared thought he sounded anything but apologetic. In fact Drago’s voice was so carefully neutral, so perfectly modulated, that his words sounded like a speech he’d carefully rehearsed walking up the stairwell.

“– but I was searching for Zenith and one of the guards told me I could find her here.”

Drago paused, as if waiting for someone to say something. When no-one did, he carried on. “If I may ask, why so many people crowded into your chamber, Caelum? This all seems a trifle … unusual.”

Caelum stared at his brother, his eyes blazing, but Drago held his stare easily, his own face carefully set into an expression of inquiry.

Zared thought it extraordinary. Few people could hold Caelum’s gaze when he was angry, as he so obviously was now, but Drago apparently had no difficulty.

“Every member of our family who is currently in Sigholt seems to be present,” Drago said very softly, “and yet I wonder why it is that you forgot to extend me an invitation as well.”

Zared had to repress a small, hard smile. There was the crux of the matter. Drago had heard about this hastily convened meeting, and decided to attend as well. He’d put Caelum in a difficult position. If he asked Drago to leave, Caelum would look petty; if he asked him to stay, it would be clear that Drago had forced him to back down.

“Perhaps as Drago has business with me,” Zenith said into the silence, “he could stand with me here until this meeting is over … unless your errand is so important you suggest I leave with you now, Drago.”

Drago finally dragged his gaze away from his brother. “No, it was but a trivial idea I had for a new board game, Zenith. But, as I find the rest of the family here, I might as well stay.”

And he walked over to his sister, stepping around FreeFall and Sa’Domai as he did so.

Caelum looked at Zenith, looked at Drago, then took a deep breath and noticeably bit down his temper. Zared thought it must have taken a particular effort, for Drago had verged on the insolent – but Zared also had to admire Drago’s nerve, and sympathise with the man for being so obviously excluded from the life of Sigholt. For a SunSoar, that would indeed be galling treatment.

Despite the terrible deeds of Drago’s youth, Zared rather liked the man, and had always got on well with him. Drago was quick-witted and fast on his feet, and often spent a morning at weapon practice with Zared when the Prince stayed at Sigholt; Zared had good cause to rue the occasional lapse of concentration that had seen Drago give him a deserved nick with the sword blade. Watching him slip in beside Zenith, giving her a small smile, Zared decided that Drago was talent and intellect ignored and wasted by most of his family.

Then Caelum spoke again, and Zared turned his eyes back towards him.

“WolfStar has reappeared,” Caelum said, and watched the faces of everyone in the room. All wore varying expressions of horror, amazement, and shock. All, Caelum noted with disquiet, save Drago, who managed to combine shock with a certain degree of thoughtfulness, as if weighing up the possibilities for mischief in this development.

Caelum shifted his gaze to Zenith, who was so pale as to be ashen, and held a trembling hand to her throat as if deeply disturbed, and then he looked at RiverStar. She had recovered quickly from her shock, it seemed, for she held his gaze easily, her lips curled in one of her secretive smiles.

The gathering was quickly recovering from its surprise, and now voices rose and fell, asking questions, demanding explanations. WolfStar was a name well known throughout Tencendor, and equally deeply distrusted. The renegade Enchanter-Talon had not only murdered hundreds of Icarii children, but had – to all intents and purposes – allied himself with Gorgrael, enabling the frightful creature to all but destroy Tencendor with his ice and Skraelings.

True, he had fathered Azhure, and she had been instrumental in enabling Axis to eventually defeat Gorgrael, and true, the word was that WolfStar had been fighting on behalf of Axis all the time he had stood at Gorgrael’s side.

But that was almost beside the point. WolfStar was an Enchanter of frightening power – enough to see him come back from death through the Star Gate – and who worked only for his own purposes. And even if WolfStar’s purposes might ultimately be for Tencendor’s well-being, they had an appalling habit of causing the death of tens of thousands in their unravelling.

FreeFall locked eyes with Caelum. “I like this not!” he spat. “What mischief does WolfStar now?”

Caelum shrugged, made as if to say something, and then turned to Zenith as she spoke.

“I felt a horror last night,” she said, her eyes huge and round, her cheeks still pasty. “A sense of doom, as if the stars were falling in. Was this WolfStar?”

“Undoubtedly, Zenith.” Caelum swept his eyes about the room. “He appeared at the Star Gate, while Orr was there. And what they heard, and then what I heard, needs to be told so that –”

“Has Council been called already? Without my presence?”

An extraordinary figure had appeared in their midst. No-one was sure if he had slipped in through the door unnoticed or had simply used his extensive powers, a combination of both the Earth magic and the Star Dance, to materialise among them.

The man was tall, slender, bare-footed, bare-chested and smooth-backed, his lower body wrapped in a cloth that, although it hung gracefully about him, looked as if it had been woven from bark and twigs. His eyes were emerald green, and fierce, as if he might snap at any moment. His hair was a tangle of wild curls the colour of sun-faded wheat, and at his hairline, on each side of his forehead, curled two unmistakable horns.

Isfrael, hope of the Avar, conceived of Axis StarMan and Faraday, when she had been Tree Friend.

Zenith shifted nervously, as did most others in the room. She was slightly apprehensive of her older brother. Although he was only a few years older than her, and although they had shared a childhood at Sigholt, Isfrael had changed since leaving to live with the Avar in the great forests to the east. Where once had been laughter was now only studied silence. Where once had been shared warmth was now only wary distance. Now Isfrael was all forest, all for the Avar. Alien, as if he had never shared a childhood with the other SunSoar children. There was a darkness, almost violent in its intensity, about the Mage-King. A tension within him, as if he would uncoil and strike at any moment.

His mother, the creature that had once been Faraday, still roamed the Minstrelsea and Avarinheim forests, but was so fey and so shy that Zenith did not know anyone who had seen her over the past thirty years.

“Isfrael,” Caelum finally said with commendable calmness. “This is not a Council, but rather a hastily convened gathering to discuss my late-night meeting with WolfStar.”

Isfrael’s eyebrows rose almost to his horns. “Then I am indeed glad I made the effort to arrive a day or so ahead of schedule. I have long held a wish to meet this demon of myth.”

“You should have spoken earlier, Isfrael. Had I known, I would have walked the paths of the Sacred Groves to meet you long before now.”

Barely over the shock of Isfrael’s sudden appearance, everyone in the room now looked towards the gloomy, shadowy fireplace at Caelum’s back; Caelum himself whipped about, and stepped to one side.

There was a movement within the vast interior of the hearth, and then a figure stepped out.

WolfStar. For everyone in the room who had never seen him – and that was most – it was immediately apparent from whom so many of the present-day SunSoars had inherited their copper hair and violet eyes. With his colouring and his golden wings, WolfStar was not only remarkably handsome, but radiated such power that everyone in the room found themselves either stepping back, or inching as far down in their seats as they could.

Zenith cringed against a far wall, her knees threatening to buckle, her heart thumping erratically in her chest, barely able to breathe. The doom that had surrounded her last night had returned thrice-fold the instant WolfStar had spoken, and now Zenith did not know how anyone else in the room could stay so calm, when to her the entire universe seemed in danger of self-destruction.

A hand grasped her arm and prevented her sliding to the floor.

Drago.

Zenith tried to speak, to thank him, but could not, for now WolfStar was staring at her, now walking towards her, and Drago had to slide his arm about her waist to stop her toppling over in the extremity of her horror.

“Zenith,” WolfStar said, stopping a pace away. It was not a question, not a greeting, just a statement, but Zenith felt as if he had somehow taken command of her soul with that one word.

What was wrong with her? Why fear him so much? Why did he affect her this badly?

Zenith, be calm. I am with you, I will protect you.

Caelum, speaking to her with the mind voice that all Enchanters used. Together with Drago’s arm about her waist, it saved Zenith from fainting completely away.

WolfStar’s eyes moved fractionally; he had also caught Caelum’s thought.

No-one can best me, fool boy! His mind moved back to the birdwoman before him. Zenith, do not fear me. Never fear me.

And he reached out and touched her cheek.

Some of the unreasoning fear vanished with that touch, but with it came a muddle of confused thoughts and images: the Dome of Stars on the Island of Mist and Memory, but seen from the interior, where Zenith had never been; a room in a peasant house, a man advancing to her, his hands outstretched in anger; a child, a raven-haired girl, nursing at her breast.

WolfStar’s fingers dropped from her cheek, and with them went the images.

WolfStar smiled, his eyes tender, then turned slightly to Drago – and snarled.

It was a horrible, harsh, totally aggressive sound, and it appalled everyone in the room. Drago himself literally thudded back against the wall, and no-one watching knew if it was simply his own fear and shock that had caused him to leap backwards, or WolfStar’s power.

“Vile creature!” WolfStar spat at him, his hands twitching. “Azhure should have killed you for your efforts in trying to murder Caelum!”

“Why quibble about a few years between deed and execution?” Drago shot back. “My mother may not have killed me then, but she ensured my inevitable death!”

Zared, watching, was consumed with two equally strong reactions. First, incredulity that Drago should have so quickly recovered to meet such frightening anger, and secondly, a sudden insight into how Drago must feel living with virtually immortal siblings – and knowing he had once shared that future – while he lined and aged day by day.

WolfStar hissed in Drago’s face, but this time the man did not flinch, holding WolfStar’s furious eyes with the ease that he’d previously held Caelum’s.

By the gods of Earth and Stars, Zared thought, that man has more courage than a battalion of battle-hardened soldiers put together!

“WolfStar!” Caelum snapped, and the Enchanter turned about, rearranging his expression into one of genial goodwill as he did so.

“But there is one more I must yet greet,” he said, as he stepped over to RiverStar and kissed her full on the lips.

Zared blinked, then decided to be unsurprised. RiverStar’s lusts were so widely gossiped about that no doubt even WolfStar had heard of her escapades. And, as sexual liaisons between grandparent and grandchild within the SunSoar clan were not forbidden, he supposed WolfStar had full right to so lingeringly enjoy RiverStar’s mouth.

Certainly RiverStar was in no hurry to end the kiss.

About the room eyes dropped and cheeks reddened. Zared himself eventually looked away; even high Tencendorian society has its pruderies, he thought, although both WolfStar and RiverStar seemed intent on making an exhibition of themselves.

“What a beautiful girl Azhure birthed,” WolfStar whispered. “And so practised.”

RiverStar almost visibly preened.

“WolfStar!” Caelum’s voice cut across the tableau, and WolfStar straightened and looked about, locking eyes here and there, smiling as people shifted and dropped their own gazes, acknowledging FreeFall and Sa’Domai with a nod.

Zared himself felt WolfStar’s power as the Enchanter’s eyes swept over him, but WolfStar apparently thought Zared of no account, for he spared him nothing more than a fleeting glance.

For the first time since he’d entered the room, Zared let himself relax. Caelum knew nothing about the troop movements to the west (and of course, Zared told himself, they are only there in case Askam moves against me), and even if WolfStar had reappeared, no-one yet had been burned to ashes, and Sigholt still stood as solid as ever.

But Zared flicked a glance at Zenith. She had recovered somewhat, but still appeared nervous and shaky.

Isfrael, who of all in the room appeared least put out by WolfStar’s presence, now stood with his arms folded across his chest and his feet well apart. “Where have you been, WolfStar? The last anyone heard of you was when you confounded my father amid the icy drifts of the northern tundra forty years ago.”

WolfStar grinned at the memory. “Axis thought to best me. He failed. But to answer your question, I have been …” he paused, his face set in a theatrical expression of thoughtfulness, “… about. Drifting.”

“That explanation will hardly relieve any minds within this room,” Caelum said. “Much can be accomplished in forty years.”

“But no mischief, Caelum. No mischief. Now, would you like me to explain to this group of open-eyed and slack-mouthed listeners what we –”

“What we heard,” Caelum interrupted, obviously increasingly irritated by the way WolfStar so effortlessly commanded the room, “was something beyond the Star Gate. Something that whispers. Something that has caused WolfStar to reappear. Whatever it is, or they are, it calls for WolfStar.”

Voices again rose in shock and bewilderment. Something beyond the Star Gate?

Caelum’s voice cut across the murmuring. “WolfStar, will you speak? Will you offer, for once, some degree of explanation?”

WolfStar, whose eyes had drifted back to Zenith, her own gaze now firmly on the floor, sighed and looked about.

“I threw two hundred and twelve Icarii through the Star Gate,” he said bluntly, horrifyingly, into the slight silence that had followed Caelum’s request. “I killed them. Including my wife, StarLaughter.”

“And her son,” FreeFall put in grimly. The SunSoar Talons had long lived with the guilt that one of their number had committed such atrocities.

“We had named him …” WolfStar shifted his weight slightly, hiding the momentary gleam of amusement in his eyes. “We had named him DragonStar.”

Utter, horrible silence.

Zared could not believe his ears. DragonStar had been Drago’s birth name, given to him by his grandfather StarDrifter, and stripped from him by Azhure when she’d also taken his Enchanter powers and Icarii heritage. Zared risked a look at Drago – the man appeared as frozen as a trapped hare, his eyes locked with WolfStar’s.

“Imagine my amusement,” WolfStar continued, now moving his gaze about the room, “when I discovered that StarDrifter, insipid fool that he is, had unwittingly named you after my lost son.”

Caelum took a step forward, his eyes sharp, his voice heavy with angry power. “Is this your manipulation, WolfStar? Did you twist StarDrifter’s mind so that you could enjoy your amusement and our discomfort so many years later?”

WolfStar laughed merrily, driving the witting cruelty yet deeper into Drago’s heart, and waved a casual hand. “No. It was sheer coincidence. Or maybe Fate. I do not know.”

He looked back at Drago. “I believe, Drago, that had you not mishandled your infancy so badly you would have grown into an Enchanter unparalleled in the history of the Icarii. As my DragonStar would have done.”

Drago was now staring fixedly at a lamp far across the room, as if he could not trust himself to look at WolfStar.

“And yet here my unfortunate brother is,” RiverStar said, unable even in this crisis to control her vicious tongue, “a cripple in every sense save the physical one. Even then, I hear the kitchen girls laugh behind his –”

“Hold your tongue, girl!” Zared had heard enough, and gods knew what Drago was going through. “Enough, RiverStar! Can you not see or understand what Drago is feeling? Can you not feel his pain?”

Drago looked at Zared with complete astonishment, and Zared wondered if this was the first time in his life someone had actually spoken on his behalf.

RiverStar slowly stood to her feet, furious that this … this mortal had spoken so harshly to her. “Do not forget, uncle,” she hissed, “that I also witnessed Gorgrael tear Caelum from Imibe’s arms because of Drago’s persistent jealousy, and I watched as Gorgrael sliced the flesh from Imibe’s bones. I believed then,” she turned her gaze to Drago, “that he would direct Gorgrael to my murder as well. I feared for my own life. That is a fear, Zared, that twists and warps.”

Along with everyone else, Caelum was looking at his sister. But he had lost all sense and understanding of being in this chamber. All he could see was the horror of Gorgrael plummeting from the sky, all he could feel was the terror of knowing his brother had plotted to kill him by the vilest means possible.

For decades Caelum had fought to bury that memory, fought to forget the frightful weeks he’d spent trapped in Gorgrael’s Ice Fortress, fought to heal himself of the scars on his soul as his body had healed itself of the scars inflicted by Gorgrael’s talons.

But now the emotions and words of this room had called it all back, brought the fear and the pain and the uncertainty slithering to the surface again.

He blinked, blinked again, and finally managed to control himself. He was beyond that now, far beyond it. Surely. His eyes drifted to Drago, and a lump of unreasoning fear rose in his throat.

And Zared thought to defend Drago? Why? Was he in league with Drago?

FreeFall watched the emotions flow over the faces of Axis’ children. Fear, hatred, bitterness, sadness – all were evident. How is it, FreeFall thought, that Axis and Azhure united a land so deeply divided, yet left a brood of children separated by such appalling antipathy that they can barely keep themselves from each other’s throats?

He sighed, and spoke. “WolfStar, is this coincidence of naming of any consequence?”

“No, FreeFall. None. It is not even surprising, when you think about it. The son whom StarLaughter carried was very, very powerful, and DragonStar was an appropriate name for him. Azhure also carried an immensely powerful son, and DragonStar was also an appropriate name for that baby.”

“And yet as I was stripped of name and heritage,” Drago said, his voice under tight control, “so was he. Both DragonStars doomed just before or just after birth.”

Caelum stared flatly at him. “WolfStar’s son did not deserve his fate, Drago. You did.”

Drago visibly winced, and dropped his eyes. But WolfStar grinned impishly at him. Oh, but he did, he did, he thought, his mind masked from all the other Enchanters in the room. Like you, Drago, my son plotted to steal my heritage as you plotted to steal Caelum’s. Maybe it is something to do with the name …

“Continue, WolfStar,” Caelum said, his eyes still on Drago. “We have not yet got beyond the front gate of your explanation.”

WolfStar shook himself from his entertaining train of thought. “I killed two hundred and twelve,” he repeated. “I threw them through the Star Gate in my obsession to discover a way back. I thought that if one of those children, just one, managed to come back, then I would be able to do so as well.”

“You wasted two hundred and twelve lives,” FreeFall said flatly.

“At the time I thought it was necessary,” WolfStar replied. “I was afraid that the Star Gate held more terrors than wonders. What if someone, some thing, crawled through that could threaten Tencendor?”

“An admirable sentiment,” Caelum interrupted, “if only it were true. My father told me you were also intent on expanding your own power.”

WolfStar smiled humourlessly. “No, not entirely. I was genuinely afraid of the potential threat that the Star Gate posed. I wanted to understand all its mysteries, not only to expand my own power, but also to ensure Tencendor’s protection.

“Well, to continue. Every Icarii birdman and birdwoman in this room has the right, as the Icarii nation has the right, to sit in judgment for that act. None of the two hundred and twelve came back, and I had lost the two I valued most dearly, StarLaughter and our son. Before I could commit acts of even greater horror, CloudBurst ended my misery, and the misery of the entire Icarii people, with a heavy dagger thrust to my back.”

WolfStar twisted in his seat, clearly remembering the feel of the blade sliding in, the taste in his mouth as his lungs filled with blood. “I died, I was entombed, and I walked through the Star Gate.”

“What did you find there, WolfStar?” Caelum’s voice was very, very soft.

“I found … other existences. I found knowledge. I found that life, as death, are but passing dreams.” And there were other things I found and that found me, Caelum StarSon, that I am unwilling to disclose. Not until I am sure there is the need. But this thought WolfStar shared with no-one.

From the corner of his eyes, Zared noticed that Drago had leaned forward slightly, as if caught by the magic of WolfStar’s voice, or perhaps the vistas the Enchanter’s words had prompted in his mind.

“And other worlds, WolfStar,” Caelum asked. “Did you find other worlds?”

“They exist, Caelum. I experienced them – I cannot put it in any other way – but I did not physically visit them. But they are there, yes.”

“Do they harbour races who might invade?” Zared ventured to ask, leaving the enigma of Drago for the moment.

WolfStar blinked. “Races from other worlds? No, no, I think not. I did not sense any threat –”

“Then what of the children you murdered?” Zenith said. Zared was surprised to hear that although her voice was soft, it was strong. “For surely it is they who whispered beyond the Star Gate. Will they come back?”

Her question made WolfStar turn and stare at her for long minutes, as if he were trying to burn every angle, every plane of her face into his mind.

“Yes,” he finally managed, “you are right. They are those I killed.”

“Do they pose a danger to Tencendor?” Caelum asked.

“No, they do not. They yearn for my blood, but I am here and they are lost beyond the Star Gate. As far as I am concerned, that is the way it will stay.”

Isfrael shifted irritably. “Then why do we hear their voices now, and never before?”

WolfStar shrugged, not willing to take his eyes from Zenith. “They drift, lost. It is not surprising that they would eventually drift slightly closer to the Star Gate than they had been previously.”

“Should we help them come home?” FreeFall asked.

His question was enough to make WolfStar drag his eyes away from Zenith. “No! No, we cannot do that!”

“And why not, WolfStar?” FreeFall’s voice was very tight.

WolfStar took a deep breath. “They have changed. Being thrown through the Star Gate as they were, alive, terrified, into a cosmos to drift for thousands of years, has altered them. They are not what they were. If they were to come through, then yes, I would fear. Please, believe me in this.”

No-one in the room noticed Drago’s eyes narrow.

“But you said there was no danger,” Caelum said.

“As long as they remain beyond the Star Gate,” WolfStar replied testily. “And I can see no way they can step through.”

“You could,” Caelum reminded him. “You came back.”

“Yes, I came back, but I went through under very different circumstances,” WolfStar explained, unwilling to disclose what it was that had helped him back. It wouldn’t help the children, would it? “I was a powerful and fully trained Enchanter when I went through. I came back, but they will not. They do not have the skills, and they do not have the power. Believe me. They will never come back. In time the interstellar tides will carry them far away from the Star Gate. In a week or two their voices will be gone.”

Caelum stared at WolfStar a moment longer, then he turned to SpikeFeather.

“My friend, get you to the Star Gate and keep watch with Orr. If those voices come closer, if anything happens, then let me know.”

SpikeFeather nodded, and slipped from the room.

WolfStar raised his eyes above the gathered heads and looked at WingRidge CurlClaw.

10 Pastry Magics

At some point, when people had grouped into ones and twos to discuss WolfStar’s words, the Enchanter himself had disappeared. Zenith, who’d made sure she kept a close eye on him, had no idea how he had done it. He’d been close to the fireplace, but she could have sworn he had not stepped back into it. Neither had he used any Song of Movement, because she would have felt it had he done so.

He was there one heartbeat, gone the next.

And Zenith had allowed herself to breathe a little more easily.

Of the others, Drago had been the next to leave, his exit far more noticeable. He’d pushed bluntly past those in his way and stalked from the room, every eye following him.

Zenith felt for Drago, and wished she’d had the courage Zared showed in leaping to his defence when RiverStar’s cruel tongue had been working its damage. Zenith had felt so ashamed that she’d later made the effort to join in the conversation, even asking WolfStar a question.

He’d stared at her, but this time there had been nothing but the stare, nothing but the roiling and yet unreadable emotion in his eyes.

Once Drago had gone, the rest of the group had been fairly quick to break up. There was much to be discussed and debated in the privacy of individual chambers, and even breakfasts to be had, for the initial shock of WolfStar’s appearance, and then his news, had long gone, and stomachs were now complaining.

Most of the servants within Sigholt, as well as the heads of the Five and their advisers, were busy with preparations for Council, which was to commence the next morning, so Zenith spent most of the day with Leagh. She felt restless, and useless in the current hive of activity, and Leagh was always comfortable company. Zenith told Leagh all that had happened in Caelum’s chambers, for she thought the woman had as much right to know as Askam or Zared, and then she asked what had transpired between her and Zared the night previously.

“Oh, Zenith! I saw more of him last night than I swear I have in the past four years. Thank you, thank you!”

Leagh’s eyes had glimmered with emotion, and Zenith had to fight back the tears herself.

Having passed the evening meal with Leagh, Zenith wandered back to her own chamber, but could not settle. Every time a drape moved in a draft, or a shadow flickered, Zenith jumped, thinking it was WolfStar.

She was sure he would come after her –

Why use that phraseology?

– why, she could not tell. But something in his touch, something in his eyes … he wanted something from her. But what? Surely it was not lust, for what WolfStar had shown her was not the wantonness he’d displayed with RiverStar.

But something else.

Something … deeper.

But that was ridiculous. She’d never met him, she was sure. WolfStar had disappeared long years before she’d even been born. Why should he spare her even a passing thought? She was nothing in the power games and mysteries currently being played out in Tencendor.

The images – memories? – that had flooded Zenith’s mind when WolfStar touched her cheek now came back and assailed her again, though with less force this time. She’d seen the inside of the Dome of Stars – but that was the province only of the First Priestess of the Temple, and Zenith had never been there. She’d seen inside that peasant hut, seen the angry, nameless man advance on her, murder in his eyes – but neither had she seen hut nor man previously. And the child … the child. Who?

Ah! Zenith shook herself. She would go mad left alone in this room to think!

She wondered again about Drago, how he felt after enduring his own personal trauma that morning, and determined to find him.

She found him, as she thought she would, in the kitchens.

RiverStar goaded Drago about affairs with the kitchen girls, but Zenith knew the real reason Drago spent so much time in the kitchens of Sigholt.

She’d discovered his secret one night seven years ago when she could not sleep and had thought to heat herself a glass of warm milk. She’d come in the kitchen doors, and then halted, astounded.

Drago had been standing at one of the work tables, dicing a huge mound of vegetables.

For some obscure reason, Drago loved to cook. He spent an hour or two down here most days, and longer if he was particularly upset over something. It was no mystery to Zenith that he would be here now.

This late at night the fires were damped down, and the staff had long gone to bed. Even so, the air was still warm, and the great metal ranges against the far wall radiated a comforting glow.

Drago was standing at a table before one of the ranges, several bowls before him, the tabletop strewn with flour and pieces of discarded meat.

“Drago?”

His head whipped up and a bowl rattled as he jumped. “What is it?”

Zenith walked further into the room. “I thought you might like to talk about this morning.”

Her brother dropped his eyes and kneaded some dough in a bowl, unspeaking.

Zenith walked over to the range, keeping her wings carefully tucked away but rubbing her hands before its warmth. “What did you think about WolfStar?”

Drago did not answer.

Now Zenith hugged her arms to herself, her eyes unfocused. “He scares me, Drago. I did not like the way he looked at me. The way he touched me.”

“I am sure there are some dozen or more people within Sigholt today who could say they do not like the way WolfStar looks at them.” He still had not raised his eyes from the bowl.

Zenith studied Drago carefully. He was kneading dough as if he wanted to bruise it.

“Drago …” She hesitated, but thought it needed to be discussed. “How did it make you feel to learn the name of WolfStar’s son?”

Drago lifted the mass of dough out of the bowl and slammed it down on the table, sending flour drifting in a cloud about him. He lifted his eyes and stared at Zenith.

“If he did not lie – and from the tales we’ve heard we know how WolfStar can lie – then all I can say is that DragonStar is a cursed name. Both of us condemned to our different deaths.”

“Drago –”

“Except that I think WolfStar’s son died far more gently than I!” He started to roll the dough back and forth, back and forth.

“Drago –”

“I do not want to talk about it!” He chopped the dough in two with the side of his hand, played at shaping one of the pieces into a pie crust, then suddenly threw it into a corner of the kitchen with all the strength he could.

“I do not want to talk about it!”

“Damn you, Drago! You must talk sometime!”

Drago rounded on her. “Look at you, Zenith! You are beautiful, vital, and you revel in your Enchanter powers. You have an aeon to live. Look at me!”

His fingers pinched at his body, then his face. “Look at me! I am wrinkling and ageing. I get out of breath climbing the stairs to the roof. All the magic I can perform is getting this … this … this arse-blasted lump of pastry to rise in the oven! And all I ever hear about this cursed Keep is how vile I am, how much air is wasted on my breath, and how I can never be trusted or loved or relied upon!”

Unable to bear her brother’s pain, Zenith lowered her eyes and toyed with the handle of a pot on the range hotplate. She could not blame Drago for feeling angry or resentful. No-one in their family seemed willing to harbour a single positive thought for the man or to consider that perhaps he had been punished enough. No-one seemed to entertain the idea that Drago might be so consumed by bitterness that his very punishment might drive him to ill-considered action.

And no-one save she had ever seemed to think through the implications of what Azhure had done to him. Icarii babies were very different from human babies in that they were completely aware from the moment of their birth and, indeed, many months before it. All Icarii memories stretched back to events pre-birth. But when Drago was only a few months old, Azhure had stripped him of his Icarii heritage, and had plunged his mind into the dim murkiness of human infancy. Drago’s memories could not date from anything earlier than his second or third year of life.

Drago would have no memory of the events that had seen him so cruelly punished. He was largely reviled, mistrusted, unloved and, above all, condemned to a life of only some three or four score of years, when he could have expected hundreds at least, for a crime he could not remember!

No-one cared about how Drago might be feeling or what kind of man lay buried beneath all the years of built-up bitterness. Zenith alone of the immediate family rather liked Drago; perhaps because she’d not yet been conceived when he had arranged Caelum’s kidnapping. Drago had a sharp wit and was, in odd, unexpected moments, kind and thoughtful.

He is trapped here in Sigholt, Zenith realised suddenly. Trapped by other people’s memories of what he did as a child.

As I am trapped by another’s memories.

Zenith went ice cold. Was that what it was? Why she had such unexplained memories invading her mind? Were they someone else’s? But whose?

“Perhaps we should both leave Sigholt for a while,” she said softly.

“What?” Drago had given up his efforts at cooking and was piling bowls into the sink with loud, angry rattles.

“Drago, how long is it since you left Sigholt?” Zenith moved forward but stopped as Drago’s face tightened. “I don’t think you’ve left in at least eight years. Drago … why?”

He stared at her, not answering.

“There is nothing keeping either of us here … why don’t we visit StarDrifter? Escape the tensions in this Keep?”

“Why should you want to leave?”

Why indeed? Zenith almost said, “Because of WolfStar”, but stopped, knowing she couldn’t explain to Drago, let alone herself, her deep-seated fright of the Enchanter, her unsettling visions, or her recurring gaps in consciousness.

“Because there is a world of purpose out there,” she said eventually, “and because neither of us has a purpose in here.”

“If I have no purpose it is because my life has been made deliberately purposeless! I am not trusted enough to be given the responsibility of a purpose.”

“Then why not leave, Drago? StarDrifter would enjoy seeing both of us.”

He looked at her, his violet eyes soft, almost gentle in this light, and she knew he was remembering the image of StarDrifter she had conjured up, and the happy months they had spent on the Island of Mist and Memory as children.

“I have no purpose anywhere,” he finally said, his voice weary with resignation. “Wherever I go I will always be the vile traitor.”

“You can remake your life if you leave Sigholt. Please, Drago.”

He seized her shoulders, and Zenith was astounded to see tears in his eyes. “I can never escape, Zenith! Never! Word would spread that Axis’ untrustworthy and evil son Drago is travelling the land. Doors everywhere would be closed to me. I have no life here in Sigholt, but I would have no life anywhere. Now, will you leave me alone?”

And he strode from the kitchen.

11 Niah’s Legacy

Even more troubled now, Zenith climbed to the rooftop of Sigholt. She stood and watched the lights shut out one by one in the town of Lakesview on the other side of the lake. She let the warm breeze caress her, and briefly contemplated a flight over the lake and hills. But she was tired, her mind full of problems, and she preferred just to lean over the wall of the roof and let the view soothe her.

Determined not to think of WolfStar, or Zared and Leagh’s troubles, or even of Drago, Zenith fixed her thoughts on RiverStar’s claim to have found a new lover. And one she might wed? Zenith almost laughed aloud. Maybe her lover considered marrying RiverStar, but Zenith doubted seriously that her sister would ever go that far. She enjoyed her freedoms too much to discard them for fidelity.

Unless … unless her lover were SunSoar. A SunSoar might well tempt RiverStar, but who was available to her here in Sigholt if not first blood?

Zenith frowned. FreeFall … but FreeFall was impossible. He and his wife EvenSong were virtually inseparable, and EvenSong was here with him. Besides, who could ever think of FreeFall and RiverStar … no, that was laughable. Surely.

And WolfStar. WolfStar was here – how much longer had he been about before he made his presence known? His penchant for disguises was legendary. If he was RiverStar’s new lover, had he been coming to her in the guise of a stableboy, or himself?

No, no, not WolfStar. Zenith did not want to think of him at all.

Although remember the way he’d kissed RiverStar this morning; was that boldness, or familiarity?

Isfrael! Zenith forced her mind as far from WolfStar as she could. Was Isfrael first blood? She supposed he was, for he and RiverStar shared a SunSoar father. But then Isfrael had changed so much since he’d become Mage-King of the Avar that it was as if his SunSoar link was gone.

Although he still had the blood to satisfy RiverStar, if indeed it were him.

No, surely not Isfrael. He had only been here since this morning … hadn’t he? When had Isfrael arrived?

“Oh, for the sweet Stars’ sakes,” Zenith murmured. “RiverStar is probably just making it all up, anyway.”

She looked down to the far courtyard, her Enchanter vision having no trouble picking out every detail in the thick night shadow. A guard moved from barrack to gate, another checked the doors to the weapons room off the main building.

A movement. Drago. Zenith sharpened her vision, then smiled gently, her eyes soft. He was feeding scraps of meat to the courtyard cats. Five or six had gathered, mewling about his legs, reaching up to pat his knees with their paws. He laughed, and squatted down to scratch them, their heads butting against his arms and chest affectionately.

Zenith had never realised he liked cats so much – nor that they so obviously adored him. All the food was gone, but still they stayed, winding about him. Her face softened yet more. Someone besides herself in this great Keep liked the man.

Drago stood up, extracted himself from the cats, and stepped back inside.

Zenith watched for a few more minutes, but he did not reappear. She sighed, and moved to the parapets that overlooked the lake, resting her elbows on the wall, her chin in her hands, lost in thought.

Sigholt was now completely quiet. The dogs were curled in sleep, the guards seemed to have turned to stone at their posts.

Silence and stillness reigned.

Zenith felt as if she had been transported to another world. Even the breeze had disappeared.

Her wings relaxed and drifted over the flagstones behind her. She sank into a greater lethargy, leaning her full weight on the wall, watching the waves ripple across the moonlit Lake of Life.

Zenith did not notice the tiniest of movements in the air about her, nor catch the enchantment that rippled over the rooftop.

“I find it not strange that I have discovered you atop Sigholt,” WolfStar said, and she whirled around, her heart pounding.

He stood relaxed and easy, his wings drooping behind him in the traditional Icarii gesture of goodwill. “For so once StarDrifter found Rivkah, and loved her, and so Axis once found Azhure, and loved her, too. No, do not lift off. Stay and talk to me, Zenith. You have nothing to fear.”

Then why does my heart race so, Zenith thought, and my breast heave with such fright? She steadied herself, although her eyes flickered about, seeking the reassurance of another person close by.

There was no-one save her and WolfStar.

A movement above her, against the Dome.

Zenith gasped, her eyes involuntarily jerking upwards. There was nothing there save the swirling stars. Nothing.

“Do you remember, sweet Zenith,” WolfStar said very softly, “when last you saw me? Do you remember that night so long ago?”

A shadow spiralling down from the roof of the Dome.

“No,” Zenith whispered, grabbing at the parapets for support. “No! We have never met before this morning!”

Something was happening. The night air of Sigholt was swirling about her, and every few heartbeats it seemed to solidify until she felt as if she were inside … inside an empty building … a dome.

“No!”

“Zenith, do not fear. You are only remembering. Accept.”

WolfStar walked slowly towards her, and as he did so he lifted his hand in the demanding gesture of seduction that male Enchanters used to will women to their bed.

“No!” She could not move, and her mind voice seemed to have vanished. She was trapped, trapped … he was too powerful …

“Yes! Zenith … here … let me remind you.”

He was close now, gathering her stiff body in his arms, and Zenith struggled uselessly, wondering if he was intent on rape.

She felt his arms about her, and it was good.

No, no it wasn’t good! Yet something seemed to have taken possession of her, some part of her mind willed her to cease resisting and let WolfStar slide her to the floor, some part of her was saying … you have bedded with him previously.

No! She twisted her head away but WolfStar was too powerful for her, both his body and his power were too strong, and she felt his mouth close over hers …

And something happened. Something broke free, something struggled free within her. Memories, voices, scents, laughter not her own crowded her mind. Faces, experiences, songs she’d never seen or heard before leaped out of hiding. A desire she’d never felt flooded her body. She …

felt him enter her body, move within her, and she had never believed it could feel this good, had never believed that such intimacy could engender such feeling, and …

No! No, what was wrong with her? His mouth was on hers, that was all. All? She could not escape it, she could not escape him, she …

twisted under him, encouraging him with body and voice, willing him on to even greater effort, willing him to merge so completely with her body and soul that they would indeed become one and not just two bodies briefly conjoined in an act designed only for child engendering.

Zenith tore her mouth from his. “No!” Broke away from him, yet even as she stumbled five or six paces away from him she felt …

the fire that he had seeded in her womb explode into new life and …

She screamed and fell to the floor, doubling over, clutching at her belly. Her wings beat futilely behind her, and almost knocked WolfStar over as he leaned down and grabbed her, holding her tightly against him, trying to stifle her sobs.

“Zenith, your mother was wrong not to tell you this before –”

“Tell me what?”

“That you were born to be my lover, Zenith. Meant for no-one else. Why else are you still a virgin at your age? Here I am, Zenith. Accept me. Zenith, you love me … accept me.”

And the dreadful thing was Zenith could feel that love, could remember the nights she had lain in her lonely bed, wishing he would return to her, crying as the night lightened to dawn and he had not appeared. She could remember years spent loving him, and she could remember months spent watching her belly swell with his child.

“No!” she shouted once more, and lunged from his arms, using both limbs and wings. Her hip struck the sharp edge of the parapet over the courtyard, and she cried out, her arms flailing. WolfStar lunged for her, but he was too late, and Zenith tumbled over the edge of the roof, gaining control of her wings only within feet of the ground and landing roughly enough to scrape hands and knees.

Help me! Help me!

And suddenly, Drago was there.

“Oh, Stars!” he cried, and fell to his knees, gathering her in his arms. Two guards from the gate had started to run towards them, but Drago waved them back. “A slip! Nothing more!”

Then, her sobbing face pressed into his chest, he held her tight, rocking her back and forth. “Zenith, what is it? What is it?”

Zenith clung to her brother, sobbing, letting his closeness and warmth and touch drive away her memories and the feel of WolfStar.

In the rectangle of light behind Drago another figure appeared. “Zenith!”

Caelum.

“Zenith! Drago, what have you done to her? Let her go!”

“Caelum,” Zenith sobbed, trying to say it was alright, that Drago was helping, not hurting, but the words would not come, and Caelum reached down and literally tore her from Drago’s arms.

“Get you gone from here!” Caelum snarled at Drago, who had backed away, his eyes swinging between Caelum’s face and Zenith, now clinging to her eldest brother.

“I was only helping –” he began, but Caelum reached out with his power and cut off Drago’s words.

“I do not want to hear your excuses! Get you gone from here!”

Drago’s face twisted, trying to form words, but Caelum would not let them come, and with a gesture of half rage, half frustration, he disappeared inside the kitchen door.

“Sweetheart,” Caelum whispered, gathering Zenith more tightly into his arms, and then the music of a Song of Movement rippled about them, and they disappeared from the courtyard.

She came to her senses, still wrapped in Caelum’s arms, but now sitting on one of the commodious couches in the inner private chamber of his apartments.

“Where’s Drago?” she said, sniffing and wiping her nose with a cloth Caelum handed her.

“He fled. Did he push you?”

“No! No, I stumbled from the rooftop. WolfStar … WolfStar was there.”

“Ah! WolfStar! He is truly the bane of our lives. Did he hurt you?”

“No,” Zenith said, but she spoke so hesitatingly that Caelum took her shoulders and pushed her back a little so he could see her face.

“He did,” he said slowly. “He did hurt you. How?”

Zenith probably would have confessed to the first person who showed her kindness, be it Caelum or unknown dairy maid. Words came tumbling out of her mouth.

“WolfStar … on the roof … kissed me … thoughts, images, not mine … crowded me … frightened me.”

Caelum pulled her close again, stroking her hair. “Go on.” His eyes were distant.

Zenith gripped her hands together in an effort to stop them shaking. “He appeared suddenly, and that surprised me, but then I felt as if I was in a … chamber of some kind. The Dome of the Moon. It was very dark. I felt there was something there, clinging to the roof. It frightened me, terrified me, I was there, I saw that place – and yet I have never been inside it in my life!”

She raised her head, enough to look Caelum in the eyes. “I felt as though I was someone else. Memories crowded my mind. Memories that were not mine! Oh, Caelum …!”

And in another flood she told him of the lost hours and the nightmares and the fears. Who was this who crowded her mind, and who sometimes took such possession of her that she could not remember what she had done? Who?

“Caelum, I do not know what to think, what to do!”

“Hush,” Caelum said, holding her tight, stroking her hair, her back, kissing the crown of her head. “Hush.”

Thoughts and memories crowded his own mind, but they were not of someone else’s making. He remembered the time, nine years ago, when Axis and Azhure had handed control of Tencendor over to him. True, there had been a glittering ceremony on the shores of Grail Lake, but there had been a far more private afternoon, when his parents had handed into his keeping some of the most precious items of their lives.

The Rainbow Sceptre, now carefully secreted within Sigholt.

The Wolven Bow, for Azhure had said she no longer needed to ride to the hunt.

The enchanted quiver of arrows, which never ran out.

A Moonwildflower.

And a letter. A letter addressed to Azhure, and written by her long dead mother, Niah.

No-one save Azhure could remember Niah, for she had died when Azhure was only about six. Niah had been the First Priestess on the Island of Mist and Memory when one night WolfStar had appeared to her, lain with her, and got Azhure upon her.

Within seven years Niah was dead, burned alive at the hands of her Plough-Keeper husband, Hagen, in the cursed village of Smyrton. But she had left Azhure a letter, and when Azhure had given it to Caelum she’d told him that one day he must hand it to Zenith.

“You will know when, Caelum. You will know the moment.”

And this was the moment. Trembling, for he had never read the letter, and did not know what was in it, Caelum gently disengaged himself, and left the room.

Zenith sat up straight, dried her eyes, and shook her hair out, grateful for the support and love Caelum had shown her, but wishing she could have explained about Drago.

Caelum was back within a few minutes, holding an envelope in his hands.

“Caelum. Drago was only –”

“Hush. Let us not speak of him, Zenith. Read this. Maybe it will help you understand.”

Puzzled, Zenith took the letter. Across the envelope there was a word scratched in bold ink. Azhure.

Even more bewildered, Zenith looked at Caelum. The writing was in Zenith’s own hand. “Who wrote this?”

“Niah, Azhure’s mother.”

Niah?

“Read it, Zenith.”

Zenith dropped her eyes to the letter. Quashing the sudden wave of apprehension that almost engulfed her she opened the envelope and took the letter out. Hands trembling, she unfolded it and began to read, her eyes skipping over the irrelevant passages.

My dearest daughter Azhure, may long life and joy be yours forever …

Five nights ago you were conceived and tonight, after I put down my pen and seal this letter, I will leave this blessed isle. I will not return – but one day I hope you will come back.

Five nights ago your father came to me.

It was the fullness of the moon, and it was my privilege, as First Priestess, to sit and let its light and life wash over me in the Dome of the Moon. I heard his voice before I saw him.

“Niah,” a voice resonant with power whispered through the Dome, and I started, because it was many years since I had heard my birth name.

“Niah,” the voice whispered again, and I trembled in fear. Were the gods displeased with me? Had I not honoured them correctly during my years on this sacred isle and in this sacred Temple?

“Niah,” the voice whispered yet again, and my trembling increased, for despite my lifetime of chastity I recognised the timbre of barely controlled desire … and I was afraid.

I stood … my eyes frantically searched the roof overhead and for long moments I could see nothing, then a faint movement caught my eye.

A shadow was spiralling down from the roof of the Dome … The shadow laughed and spoke my name again as he alighted before me.

“I have chosen you to bear my daughter,” he said, and he held out his hand, his fingers flaring. “Her name will be Azhure.”

At that moment my fear vanished as if it had never existed. Azhure … Azhure … I had never seen such a man as your father and I know I will not again during this life … His wings shone gold, even in the dark night of the Dome, and his hair glowed with copper fire. His eyes were violet, and they were hungry with magic.

Azhure, as Priestesses of the Stars we are taught to accede to every desire of the gods, even if we are bewildered by their wishes, but I went to him with willingness, not with duty. I wore but a simple shift, and as his eyes and fingers flared wider I stepped out of it and walked to meet his hand.

As his hand grasped mine it was as if I was surrounded by Song, and as his mouth captured mine it was as if I was enveloped by the surge of the Stars in their Dance. His power was so all-consuming that I knew he could have snuffed out my life with only a thought. Perhaps I should have been terrified, but he was gentle for a god – not what I might have expected – and if he caused me any pain that night I do not remember it. But what I do remember … ah, Azhure, perhaps you have had your own lover by now, but do you know what it feels like to lie with one who can wield the power of the Stars through his body? At times I know he took me perilously close to death as he wove his enchantments through me and made you within my womb, but I trusted him and let him do what he wanted and lay back in his wings as he wrapped them about me and yielded with delight and garnered delight five-fold in return.

Zenith blinked, for it was as if she were there, feeling this, not reading about it. She … she could remember writing these words, remember sitting there for almost an hour at this point, her mouth curling softly in memory of that night of passion and loving. She had not known his name then, but that had not mattered very much, not when she had his body to grasp to her, not when both she and he burned with such virulent desire.

Zenith shuddered. Gods! What was happening to her?

Even as he withdrew from my body I could feel the fire that he had seeded in my womb erupt into new life. He laughed gently at the cry that escaped my lips and at the expression in my eyes, but I could see his own eyes widen to mirror the wonder that filled mine. For a long time we lay still, his body heavy on mine, our eyes staring into each other’s depths, as we felt you spring to life within my womb.

Zenith’s mouth formed the word “No”, but she did not voice it. She was no longer in her mother’s chamber in Sigholt, but lying on the cold floor of the Dome of the Moon, staring into WolfStar’s eyes as he lay atop her.

After a moment she managed to regain enough control so she could resume reading the letter. Niah wrote of how the “god” – WolfStar – had told her she would have to travel to Smyrton, wed the local Plough-Keeper, Hagen, and bear her child. There the child, Azhure, would eventually meet the StarMan.

I know that I will die in Smyrton, and I know that the man your father sends me to meet and to marry will also be my murderer. I know that my days will be numbered from the hour that I give you birth. It is a harsh thing that your father makes me do, for how will I be able to submit to this Plough-Keeper Hagen, knowing I will die at his hands, and keep a smile light on my face and my body willing? How can I submit to any man, having known the god who fathered you? How can I submit to a life dominated by the hated Brotherhood of the Seneschal, when I have been First Priestess of the Order of the Stars?

Your father saw my doubts and saw my future pain, and he told me that one day I will be reborn to be his lover forever.

“No, no, no, no.” Zenith shook as the implications of what she was reading began to sink in. “No!”

He said that he had died and yet lived again, and that I would follow a similar path.

He said that he loved me.

Perhaps he lied, but I choose not to think so. To do otherwise would be to submit to despair. His promise, as your life, will keep me through and past my death into my next existence.

“I do not believe it,” Zenith said with all the calmness she could muster. She carefully folded the letter in half and handed it back to Caelum. “Read it. But do not believe it. It is a mistake. A lie.”

Caelum walked slowly over to the fire, standing with his back to the flames as he read through the letter once, then once more, far more slowly.

“I knew some of this,” he said, finally looking up. “I knew that WolfStar came to Niah in the Dome of the Moon. I knew how Niah died. But this … this promise that WolfStar made to Niah … that she would live again … that I did not know.”

“But Mother did know. She knew … all these years! Knew and never told me! Why?”

Is that why Mother did not give me a Star name? Zenith wondered. Because she knew I was Niah reborn?

“Why?” Caelum shrugged helplessly, spreading his hands out. “Zenith, I don’t know. Maybe she felt there was no point telling you until … until WolfStar reappeared. Gods! I don’t know!”

“So she let me find out this way?”

“Zenith.” Caelum came back to sit by her side, his voice gentle. “If there is one thing I have learned from my parents’ lives, and from my own, it is that we are all born with a destiny. My parents were into their third decades before their destinies became clear to them, and –”

“No!” Zenith took the letter from Caelum’s hand and began to turn it over and over in her own. “I will not accept it!”

“– and I have had to accept that my destiny is as StarSon, and my burden is Tencendor.”

“I am Zenith! No-one else!”

“Yes, my dear, yes. But … but it is apparent that you also have Niah’s soul and many of her memories, and –”

“No!” How many times had she shouted that negative tonight, Zenith numbly wondered in a dark recess of her mind, and how many more times would she have to shout it?

“– and,” Caelum continued, speaking over Zenith’s increasing denials, “you still have life. You have all of your own memories and experiences. You must only come to terms with the fact that you also have a set of memories and experiences that stretch back before your birth.”

“No!” Zenith leapt to her feet and began pacing restlessly about the room. What now was truly, truly terrifying was the fact that as she had shouted that “No!” some part of her mind had whispered back, Yes!

She was Niah reborn … born to live out Niah’s yearnings, Niah’s life.

No!

She was Niah, reborn, both mother and daughter to Azhure.

No!

She was Niah reborn, and what that meant was that she no longer had any say in her own life, because her life would now be lived according to Niah’s dictates, Niah’s dreams.

“No!”

She would live her life locked in the arms of Niah’s lover.

“I am not Niah!” she whispered, low and fierce. How could she be?

“Zenith! Listen to me!” Now Caelum was before her, his face was determined, his voice hard. “Zenith, you will have to adjust, but you will be able to –”

“No! No! No!” Zenith wrenched herself from Caelum’s grasp and stumbled across the room. With vicious movements she tore the letter into shreds and threw the pieces into the fire.

“Niah is dead!” Not living in her. Not! Had this misplaced ghost always been hiding in her bodily spaces, waiting for a moment when she could – no! She could not even think it!

“No!” Zenith screamed one last time and fled from the chamber.

Caelum stood in the middle of his chamber, staring after her, trying to make sense of her reaction. It had been a shock, of course … but surely if she calmed down, thought it through, and accepted it, then it would be easier. Perhaps she’d best be left alone for a while. Perhaps all she needed was time.

Then Caelum remembered how WolfStar had kissed RiverStar, and his eyes clouded over. Not RiverStar! No! Better Zenith, better by far. Zenith must learn to accept WolfStar, and WolfStar surely would not harm her if he loved her.

But …

“Leave her alone for a few days, WolfStar,” he said into the empty room, but he spread the words over and through Tencendor with his power, seeking out the Enchanter. “Give her time.”

Somehow he felt, if not saw, WolfStar’s predatory grin.

12 Council of the Five Families

The Great Hall of Sigholt sat silent, waiting, as the morning sun danced down through the high arched windows set among the massive roof beams. Banners, pennants and standards hung from walls and beams, their fields and borders rippling slightly in the warming air. From the windows the silvery-grey walls fell unfettered for twenty paces, eventually dividing into immense arched columns, behind which shifted the shadowy spaces of the cloisters. The floor was utterly bare, the newly scrubbed and sanded flagstones gleaming almost ivory in this bright light.

In the very centre of the Hall sat a great circular golden oak table. Seven chairs were arranged about it.

About eight paces from this great table, and between it and the empty fireplace, were arranged some three smaller tables, each draped with black cloth and with a dozen chairs behind them.

The notaries were first to enter, their faces solemn with importance, their scarlet robes stiff with self-worth. Behind them came their secretaries – arms bustling with ledgers, accounts, papers, scrolls and the minutiae of a nation’s life – and their scribes, carrying the quills and inkwells of final judgment. Finally there was a brief scuttling of messenger boys, too overcome with the occasion to be anything but round-eyed and obedient.

Once the bureaucracy had arranged themselves at the black-draped tables, the messenger boys waiting behind them amid the columns, the honour guard entered. Three Wing of the Strike Force, unarmed, stood about the walls of the Great Hall, their black uniforms merging with the dimness behind the columns. When they were still, WingRidge led in twenty-five of the Lake Guard, who took a prominent position, standing in a ring ten paces back from the central circular table.

All the Council needed now were the main actors.

Of those, StarSon Caelum entered first. He wore black, as was his custom, but his face was far more careworn than usual. Without fuss he seated himself at the table. And then, in a procedure initiated by Caelum when he first assumed the Throne of the Stars, the heads of the Five Families entered simultaneously, each from a different door. They strode to the central table, their boot heels clicking, arriving to stand behind their chairs as simultaneously as they had entered the hall. All were unarmed, their swords left back in their chambers.

They waited. From the central doors Isfrael emerged.

As one they all turned to Caelum, and bowed.

“I thank you for your attendance here this day,” he said. “Be seated.”

Askam sat on Caelum’s immediate right, Zared his left. FreeFall sat next to Askam, Isfrael next to Zared. Sa’Domai and Yllgaine took the seats immediately opposite Caelum. There was nothing on the table before the men, save their differences.

“My friends,” Caelum said in a voice that, although soft, was so well modulated it carried easily to the men at the table, and to the notaries and secretaries eight paces away. “I bid you welcome to Sigholt for this Council, and I express my regrets that it should be convened so hastily and so soon after our last Council.

“However, as you are all aware, there are matters which need to be discussed and decided among us. Chief among these matters is the issue of the taxes that Prince Askam has been forced to levy on the West. Over the past few weeks Askam has imposed taxation on goods moved by land or water through his territory, as well as on those families deciding to emigrate to the North.”

“‘Forced’ is hardly the word I’d use,” Zared muttered, his grey eyes on Askam.

“I had every right to impose those taxes –” Askam began, but Caelum silenced them both with an angry look.

“We are all aware of how onerous these taxes are,” he said. “A third of the value of goods is … exorbitant. Ten thousand gold pieces per family moving north is incomprehensible.”

Zared relaxed slightly.

“I wish to hear from the principals involved, then from Duke Theod and Earl Herme who were kind enough to ride to Sigholt to offer their views, then from the rest of you about this table. Askam, will you speak?”

Askam took a deep breath. “My friends, I am as aware as any of you how draconian these taxes sound. However, consider my position. For years I have worked tirelessly on Tencendor’s behalf, and on StarSon Caelum’s behalf. These efforts have cost me dearly. My creditors push for the return of their funds. These taxes will clear the West of debt within two years –”

“And two years is more than enough to drive your people into starvation, Askam!” Zared cried. “Curse you! There are better ways of raising revenue than stealing it from the mouths of those who can least afford to –”

“Oh, god’s arse, Zared!” Askam said. “This is all about you! Have you not been transporting your ore and gems and furs free of charge down to the southern markets at a handsome profit for decades? This talk of starving peasants is nonsense. Your purse has been dented – you who can well afford it – and thus you complain. I have not seen you spend more than a copper piece entertaining diplomats and foreign missions, nor founding the schools or universities that I have.”

“Be quiet, Askam,” Caelum said, then shifted his eyes slightly. “Zared, Askam has got a point there. You have indeed made free use of his extensive system of roads and river boats for many years now.”

“I have paid full price for their passage, StarSon,” Zared said.

“Still, Askam does have the right to impose taxes on external goods moving through his territory. The fact is, he could have levied this tax only on your goods, not on those of his own people.”

Zared held his breath for a moment, then spoke very deliberately. “The fact is, Caelum, that Askam has imposed a tax which directly hurts the West, and indirectly hurts another province. And the … human … populations of the West and North feel that they have been inordinately imposed upon. If these taxes are the result of debt run up in your cause, Caelum, then why do not all the peoples of Tencendor help retrieve the situation?”

“The Avar do not pay taxes,” Isfrael said, very low.

“And yet my people must!” Zared cried. “Can you not all of you see how dangerous this is? One race pays the debts of a nation of three races?”

“Enough,” Caelum said. “Before I ask the views of the Avar, Icarii and Ravensbund, I would have Herme and Theod enter.”

He nodded at the side tables, and one of the secretaries hurried to open the doors, whisper urgently, and escort the Duke and Earl to the table.

Herme and Theod stood slightly to the right of Sa’Domai’s chair, where all could see them. Both wore tightly restrained expressions, both avoided looking at either Askam or Zared.

“Your views, gentlemen?” Caelum asked.

Herme spoke first, detailing how the taxes had impacted upon his own county of Avonsdale. All had been crippled, not only those with business moving goods on the road, but even the lowly farmers or labourers who moved neither stock nor fodder from their land.

“They can hardly afford food now, StarSon,” Herme finished. “If they cannot grow it, then they certainly cannot buy it, for merchants have been forced to increase the cost of all merchandise to cover the taxes.”

Which naturally, Zared thought, then increases the taxes in direct proportion to the inflated value of the goods.

Theod told a similar tale. The people of Jervois Landing, of whom almost all relied on trade to survive, would be destitute within the year. And yet they could look across the Nordra, look into eastern Tencendor under FreeFall’s control, and see free markets, and round, rosy cheeks on the children.

“As, of course, they can in the North,” he said finally. “Many among the people of the West are moving north, and if they cannot afford to pay the border tax, then most of them will become homeless, destitute, and a burden on those already struggling to survive.”

“I thank you, gentlemen,” Caelum said, just as Herme had opened his mouth to say something else. “You may retire.”

He waited until the doors had closed behind them, then he looked at Isfrael, FreeFall, Yllgaine and Sa’Domai. “My friends?”

FreeFall spoke first. “There can be no doubt that these taxes are onerous, StarSon. But …”

“But obviously something must be done to relieve Askam of the burden of debt he ran up in your service, Caelum,” Yllgaine said. “The tax on goods moved through the West seems the best way to do it.”

Zared bit his tongue to keep his anger from spilling out in unreasoned words. Yllgaine undoubtedly would not want his trading rights taxed!

Isfrael’s only comment was to repeat that the Avar had never been taxed, and would not consent to being taxed now. “And how would they pay it? In twigs? In acorns?”

Sa’Domai shrugged. “I can sympathise with Zared in that his people also suffer … but I note Askam’s point that this debt was largely run up in Tencendor’s service –”

Zared could no longer contain himself. “And some appalling investments! Gloam mines, for the gods’ sakes!”

Caelum hit the table with the flat of his hand. “Be still, Zared! Or would you like to entertain the Corolean Ambassador and his train the next time he decides on a three-year stay?”

Zared leaned back in his chair, his eyes carefully blank, listening to the conversation waft about him. Those of the Five not directly affected by the taxes first spoke of the weight of the taxes, then of Askam’s pressing (and understandable) need for money.

Caelum listened, nodded occasionally, and was careful not to give the impression that he was for one side or the other. Finally he held up his hand for silence.

“The issue of placing a border tax on those families wishing to move north must also be resolved.”

“The issue is one of the freedom of a man to move his family to where they can eat, Caelum,” Zared snapped, tired of the discussion, but not willing to let such an important point pass with no debate.

“The issue,” Askam shot back, “is whether or not you have the right to entice the most skilled of my workers and craftsmen north. I hear rumour that you pay well for such men to settle in Severin. Well enough, I think, to levy a tax on each of their departing heads for the troubles their loss causes me.”

“I pay them nothing! They journey north only because they know their families will have a future with –”

“Enough!” Now Caelum stood, furious. “I have heard sufficient to judge in this matter.”

He sat down again, but his eyes were still flinty. “Askam. You may have the right to levy taxes as you will in the West, but you do not have the right to deprive people of the means of survival. Zared, your people have suffered too, and that is wrong, but what is also wrong is the fact that for many years … too many years, you have grown fat on the riches of Ichtar which you have shipped, free of any levy, to market via the West.

“This is my judgment. The border tax must go. It is an injustice to so deprive people of their freedom of movement, their freedom of choice to move.”

“But –” Askam began.

“However, I hope that my decision on the other tax will go some way to alleviate your financial troubles, Prince of the West. The third tax on goods carried through the West must be lowered to one-tenth, still onerous, but enough for your people to bear.”

Askam’s face went dark with anger. How did that help him? A tenth would never bring in – “But, Askam,” and Caelum’s eyes slid fractionally towards him, “I am fully aware that most of your debt was accomplished in my service, and for that I am more than grateful. While the people of the West must only pay one-tenth in tax, anyone else moving their goods through the West must pay half value in levy.”

Zared’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. What was Caelum doing? “No-one else moves goods through the West save the people of the North,” he finally managed. “That is a tax aimed directly at me and mine!”

Caelum turned to look him full in the eye. “And when have you run into debt to aid me, Zared? When? This is a fair way, as I see it, of making sure that all contribute towards –”

“But none of them have to pay!” Zared shouted, flinging an angry arm at the others. “When do they contribute towards –”

“Are you asking what the Icarii contribute?” Caelum seethed, “when they spent a thousand years in exile due to … due to …”

Due to your people. Caelum may not have spoken the words, but all heard his thoughts in their minds.

“Do you ask what Nor contributes, when for a thousand years his family maintained the Island of Mist and Memory?”

And for a thousand years your people desecrated every sacred site in Tencendor they could lay a plough to?

“Do you ask what the Avar contribute, when they had to watch their homelands slaughtered, their children burned?”

And for a thousand years your people took the axe to every tree they could find, and murdered those who did not conform to the Way of the Plough?

Zared had gone white with shock. He stared at Caelum, absolutely incapable of speech.

How could Caelum send those thoughts careering through all of their heads, and still claim that he didn’t want the term “Acharite” used because it stank of the hatreds of the past?

Caelum held his stare, then waved one of the Lake Guard over. “Bring in the Princess Leagh,” he said.

“No,” whispered Zared. “Not after that, not –”

The doors opened, and Leagh walked in. She had dressed herself in a gown of silk that precisely matched the grey of Zared’s eyes, and her face was as ashen as his, for she had heard the shouting of the previous minutes.

Even so, she was composed, and she did not tremble or falter as she curtsied before Caelum. “StarSon.”

“Princess Leagh,” Caelum said, his tone now far more gentle. “You and Zared are aware of why I have called you here.”

She stood, and gazed calmly at him. “I am, StarSon. Is it yea or nay?”

Caelum was taken aback at such bluntness. He had meant to put this matter before the entire Council as well, even though he had made up his mind weeks ago, because he’d felt that both Zared and Leagh would take it better if his decision was backed by the weight of the Council.

But after the previous “discussion”, Caelum did not trust this gathering, nor even himself, to be able to keep a debate calm and reasoned.

“Leagh … Zared,” he risked a quick glance at Zared, but turned back to Leagh. “Leagh, it is nay. It must be nay. There are good reasons for my –”

He got no further. Zared leapt to his feet. “Good reasons, Caelum? Good reasons to deny Leagh and myself our hearts’ desire? Why? Is there a tax on her I have neglected to pay?”

He turned to Askam. “How much, man? A third? A half?”

Askam leaped to his feet, his chair crashing behind him. He made as if to lunge across the table, but FreeFall was quick enough, and strong enough, to seize his arm and drag him back.

“Peace!” Caelum shouted. He signalled one of the Lake Guard. “Please escort the Princess Leagh from this Hall. I have words to speak that I would not like her to hear.”

Leagh shot one frightened, stricken look at Zared, but then the birdman had her by the elbow and was pulling her back.

“Leagh!” Zared cried, but he was restrained by Isfrael, and the door closed behind Leagh with no further word or look being exchanged.

Caelum whipped about to face Zared. “You have gone too far, Prince!”

As have you, Zared thought. He was icy calm now, and he shook off Isfrael’s hold.

Caelum sat down. “I will close this Council within minutes, Zared, but first I need to say that –”

“You cannot close this Council yet,” Zared said. “There is one more item of business we need to discuss.”

Caelum stared at him. “And what might that be?”

“We need,” Zared said, his hand absently hovering where his sword normally hung from his weapons belt, “to discuss restoring the throne of Achar.”

13 The Throne of Achar

The entire Hall was silent, stunned. The notaries and secretaries had paused in their incessant hunt for precedents in their documents to stare open-mouthed at the central table. The scribes’ quills had dipped unnoticed to scratch uselessly against cloth instead of parchment. The messenger boys were rigid with terror, incapable of moving.

The guards, already rigid and expressionless, still somehow managed to register their outrage. Restore the throne of Achar?

“And so now the traitor speaks,” Askam said softly into the silence. “Is this what you have wanted all along, Zared? Is this the reason you so pursued Leagh?”

“I am no traitor,” Zared said, just as quietly, “to want for the Acharites what every other race in Tencendor has – their own head. Their own pride.”

“Sit down, Zared,” Caelum said. Nothing about his demeanour revealed the intense shock, even fear, Zared’s words had caused.

Caelum set his hands flat on the table before him, stared at them a long moment, then raised his eyes to the six men about the table. “Speak to me,” he said.

“Well,” Yllgaine said, “technically this conversation is academic only. The throne of Achar no longer exists. It is a relic of the past. It cannot be revived.”

“Achar no longer exists!” Askam exclaimed. His body was stiff with outrage, his eyes bright with indignant anger. As Prince of the West, Askam had the most to lose if the realm of Achar was recreated. Achar had once covered most of the territory he now governed, and had included Carlon, the richest and most populous city in Tencendor. “And thus the ‘Acharites’ don’t exist. Have you not read your Edicts of the First Year of StarSon Caelum’s Reign, Zared?”

Zared ignored him. “This is not how I wished to raise the issue –” he began, when Caelum interrupted.

“Nevertheless, this is how you raised it! I – nay, all of us here at this table – would be grateful if you would enlighten us as to the motives … the desires … behind your words.”

“But now that the issue has been raised,” Zared continued regardless, refusing to look at Caelum, “may I speak without interruption?”

Askam started to say something more, but Caelum held up his hand for silence. “Let him speak.”

“My friends, when Axis reunited Tencendor he righted a massive wrong. I cannot deny that. Former Acharite kings and the Seneschal had riven the ancient realm apart with their lies and hatred. Borneheld only made matters worse, and I have no quarrel with the fact that Axis killed our brother in fair duel in the Chamber of the Moons in Carlon.

“But I do have some reservations about his choices immediately after winning that duel. He reproclaimed Tencendor, yes, but in doing so he destroyed the ancient kingdom of Achar.”

“It had no place in Tencendor!” Askam said, looking about the table for support. “It was ever an aberration!”

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