Keys of Awakening

On the Issue of Power

True magic comes about in this way: all the powers of the universe are already present within each and every being’s core. It is only our sense of limitation – our belief that we are small – that prevents us from experiencing this truth.

This sense of limitation is itself a power. It is known as Marba and in this instance serves an important purpose: that of keeping us here, in this physical realm, to experience life in this limited way. If it were removed, we would not dream of remaining so limited for another instant and we would expand back into the truth of our natural vastness.

So Marba (or Seeming) is already strong within all in existence, for we believe ourselves to be other than we truly are. We believe ourselves to be powerless, small, and weak – when in fact the opposite is true.

The reason why we have placed this limitation upon ourselves in the first place, while of great interest to all, is not relevant here so we shall not pursue it. We leave that question to the alchemists of thought: to the philosophers, the scholars, and in particular to the priesthood of Ataram, for it is they who delve deep into the fabric of the reality that underlies and sustains the illusory world of substance.

Here we must limit our focus to the powers that are available to us within the Great Dream.

At the onset, therefore, it is essential to understand that we are the ones to have chosen this state of affairs: chosen to limit ourselves and to forget our true nature through no volition other than our own.

The inevitable question follows: why is this essential? And the answer that is offered is that in order to become truly empowered we must first take responsibility for the power that already lies within us – even if this power lies dormant, unrecognised and unseen.

To expand on this: the powers that we seek cannot be found outside of ourselves. Each and every power cannot ever be acquired from an external source; instead, each one is re-membered, meaning that it is returned to the whole. So this is the first great law on the path to power:

There is nothing to be acquired from without. Not from any ancient tome, nor from some arcane artefact, nor from any of the great wise ones.

Any assistance or guidance received from outside of us is merely there because we have placed it there ourselves in order that, little by little, or as the folk-tales like to say – petal by petal – we retrace our way home, back to the truth that we have temporarily abandoned in order to marvel at the scope of this Great Dream.

Even this answer is often insufficient to appease the budding student who has but recently stepped upon the path. So I will add just one more thing and then I shall still my tongue:

To see a power as existing exclusively outside of us is no better than disempowering self-deceit: it leads not to mastery, but to slavery. Slavery to the perceived source of power: slavery to the tome, to the artefact or to the wise one. Furthermore, the power that is thus perceived cannot be attained as long as this false perception persists, for its true source is not understood. It is like the tale of the maiden who chances upon her image reflected in a still forest pool and becomes enamoured with the diadem worn by her reflection. We all know the tale: she grows old returning there each day, trying to wrest the ornament from her mirrored image. So it is with these powers.

For this reason the final task of anyone approaching mastery must be to cast all teachers, all artefacts and all tomes into the flames – symbolically, of course – but a powerful and liberating symbol it is, one that acknowledges that the source of all true power lies, only and ever, within.

If one wishes to become an Adept of power and magic, one must first uncover one’s underlying nature and come to terms with what one truly is.

To do so is to become a Seeker.

A true Seeker must embark upon, and master, each of the Thirteen Paths and become in turn Nargal, Eilo, Ravanas, Marba, Duman, Saman, Pholgore, Zagar, Cabir, Analth, Gamorn, Rahuld and finally, Tammaz.

This is a Journey that can last a lifetime, and often extends far beyond.

From “The Arcanum of Wisdom – Introduction for the Initiate”

Illiom climbed slowly out of the abyss.

By sheer power of will, she forced her consciousness to stir and to awaken. Her whole body ached from the effort.

She heard voices, their tone encouraging but still incomprehensible. She almost turned away from them, believing them to be more phantoms come to torment her; but gradually the words began to make sense - they were familiar, this was her own language: Albradani.

When she finally opened her eyes, Azulya’s face moved immediately into view. The Kroeni woman’s raven-black hair shaded her expression but made the flecks of fire burning in her eyes appear more intense than ever. Other faces peered down at her from behind the Kroeni.

“Illiom, you are safe,” Azulya said, and Illiom felt the Kroeni woman’s hand on her brow, stroking hair away from her eyes. “You found your way to our camp. I do not know how you did it, but you did. You are safe.”

Behind the faces gathered over her the sky was blue once more, completely clear of dust and sand. Illiom looked at her companions and sighed as waves of relief washed over her.

“Is everyone else …?”

There was a pause that was quickly filled by Argolan’s voice.

“Everyone else is fine, Illiom …”

But Illiom saw a shadow flit across Azulya’s eyes. She gripped the Kroeni woman’s robe.

What are you not telling me?

“Is Tarmel…?”

“I am here, Illiom,” she heard her Rider say, and a moment later his face also moved into view.

Relief flooded her then, but Azulya placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I am so sorry, Illiom …” she said.

“It is Calm,” Tarmel interrupted. It was as if he wanted to take a burden away from Azulya. “When we found him … well, his leg was broken.”

She sat up and looked at him hard, searching his eyes.

“Where is he?”

Tarmel looked back at her steadily.

“He is gone, Illiom.”

His words were soft, full of regret. “We had to let him go. He was in pain and there was nothing that could be done.

Calm? Gone?

“No …”

Her negation choked on a sob.

She looked at Azulya as if she might find some solace there. Her hand came up to cover her mouth.

“Oh no …”

The Kroeni drew her into an embrace then, and Illiom buried her face in Azulya’s warmth. She wept, but even as she did so, she knew that she cried for more than her horse’s death. For a while the world was filled with grief.

Sometime later she awoke to find herself alone. She lay still, listening to the subdued voices of the others talking some distance away.

Tarmel must have been watching her, for when she turned to face the sound he immediately stood up and made his way to her side.

He squatted and tilted his head, searching her eyes.

“Better?”

She shook her head slowly.

He nodded and sat down on the ground. They remained thus, close together, unspeaking.

Tarmel broke the silence first, asking if she wanted water. She took the skin from him.

“Where did you find me?” she spoke between sips.

He hesitated before answering.

“Well, that is another mystery. We found you about two hundred spans from where we had set up camp …”

Illiom’s forehead creased.

“Two hundred …? How can that be?”

He shrugged.

“I do not know. When we looked for Calm it took us quite a while to find him; he was almost half a league from where we found you. I guess that means you must have walked all that way …”

“I hardly walked at all!”

Her protest drew a few glances from the others.

“I hardly walked,” she repeated softly.

Tarmel shrugged.

“Then I do not know what happened.”

Undina walked over and offered Illiom a steaming cup of broth.

As she took the vessel from the girl, Illiom was captivated by her tribal markings. The deep hue of her skin and the tattoos that adorned her forehead stirred something awake.

“I remember hearing some voices,” Illiom said. “I saw lights and someone strange spoke to me in a language I have not heard before. And all the while the storm was still blowing …”

Undina and Tarmel exchanged a glance. They gave her sympathetic smiles and nodded at her words, but she could see that they believed her account to be nothing more than a hallucination brought on by her ordeal.

She closed her eyes then and sipped the broth in silence.

Seeing the Pelonui tribal had brought back a memory of a weathered face laced with complex designs, of strangely veiled eyes … had that been a dream too? She could barely recall the blur of events that had begun with that crazy ride into the sandstorm. The whole experience had swallowed her world for a time and had distorted her sense of what was real and what was not.

With a sigh she allowed her musings to slip away. Grateful to be back in the safety of her group she sunk back into her bedroll, dismissed all speculation about what might or might not have happened, and let herself drift back into sleep.

Illiom was allowed to sleep for the remainder of the morning. She was woken by Tarmel to a light lunch. While she ate, Tarmel and Angar unburdened one of the pack horses and redistributed its load to the remainder. After they had saddled him, Tarmel brought him over to meet Illiom. Like Calm, the new mount was a gelding. He sported a healthy chestnut coat and a cream mane.

She looked at him dubiously.

“What is his name?”

“I have no idea,” Tarmel said.

Neither did anyone else.

Illiom shrugged.

“Well, maybe that is just as well.”

Tarmel gave her a questioning glance but she did not elaborate.

When it was time to leave, her Rider helped her onto her new mount. The first thing she noticed was that she had been given Calm’s saddle.

Of course, she realised, where would they get a different saddle here?

But the realisation came with a pang of regret.

However, she was not given the luxury of indulging her feelings, for her next discovery was that the new horse had an entirely different disposition to Calm. Whereas he had been patient and agreeable, her new mount seemed to try constantly to wrest control away from her. Once they set out he changed pace suddenly and without any prompting from her. She reined him in sharply and he snorted in protest. Soon afterwards he did the opposite and slowed right down.

She pointed out his behaviour to Tarmel.

“He needs you to have a stronger hand with him. If you do not, he will not feel safe and he will start leading you around. Best you do not let that happen …”

Illiom nodded but her frown showed her true feelings. This horse’s wilfulness made her miss Calm all the more, and by the time Argolan called a stop she was frustrated, annoyed, and glad to be off the saddle.

They set up camp beneath a great spur of rock that jutted skyward, obliterating half the stars. When the campfires were lit they illumined the broad rock face and caused their shadows to flicker and dance like shadow-puppets in a roadside theatre.

It was only when daylight faded that she remembered Who.

Where was he? How had he fared in the storm?

Far better than you.

She smiled and felt awash with gratitude. However, that brief contact was not enough. She had barely seen him since they had left the Sevrocks and right now she needed far more than his sendings.

So after dinner, before tiredness could claim her again, she stole away from the camp.

She had never been able to do so without attracting at least one of the sentries’ attention, and this night was no different.

“Illiom,” Wind spoke her name as the Rider materialised out of the shadows. “Going for an evening walk? Very well, but do not stray far. Argolan will have my hide if anything else happens to you.”

Illiom smiled and walked out into the still, infinite night.

As she moved away from the camp, she felt an aching sadness arise. Maybe it was Calm’s death that brought this on, but quite suddenly she felt tired of being alone. She had left the mountains, that was true, but she had done so in body alone, for here she was, still hiding, still protecting herself from the rest of the world with her secrets.

For a moment she toyed with the thought of returning to Wind and revealing to the fey Rider what she was actually doing. She stopped, turned, and retraced her steps quite on impulse; but in the few moments that it took her to walk back to the Rider she had changed her mind.

“I forgot something,” she said instead, and continued making her way back to camp.

She found Tarmel where she had left him, sitting by the fire, working oil into the steel of his weapons. Sereth, beside him, was absorbed in tuning his harp.

Her Rider looked up as she approached, his mouth shaping a hint of a smile.

“I thought you had gone to sleep,” he said.

“Care for a walk?”

He looked surprised, but then nodded.

“Certainly …”

He laid his sword down upon an oiled cloth and folded the latter around the weapon.

“I want to show you something,” Illiom said.

Together they walked past Wind’s speculating gaze and out into the night, lit brightly by the waning moon.

Illiom came to a stop once she was sure that they were out of sight.

“I have decided to show you something that I have not shown anyone before.”

Tarmel said nothing as Illiom wrapped a band of leather around her left forearm. Next she extended the arm out into the night.

“Who, come!” she called out. She did so for Tarmel’s benefit alone, that he might have some warning of what was to come. “Come and meet the stranger who sought me out in the mountains. Come and meet Tarmel, my Rider.”

At first nothing happened.

They waited.

Tarmel’s face was in shadow, making it difficult for her to read his expression. She heard his intake of breath.

“Shh!” she chided, forestalling him. “Just wait.”

She felt the owl approach and a moment later he materialised out of the night, his tawny wings opening fully to break his silent flight.

He alighted onto the extended arm, folded his wings, and fixed the round moons of his eyes upon the Rider.

Illiom kept her gaze on Tarmel and the beginnings of a smile shaped her lips.

His own mouth had dropped open at the sight of the owl and she saw the effort that it took him to clamp it shut again. He stared at Who, and Who stared right back with his usual affronted expression.

“Tarmel, this is my dear old friend, Who.”

The Rider swallowed.

“An owl?”

Who spoke to her mind.

So you have decided to reveal some of your secrets at last?

Illiom, who had intended to speak to Who out loud, now hesitated. She answered him internally instead.

Well, only to Tarmel. For now.

The owl tilted his head and, standing on one foot, scratched a tufted ear with the other.

And only part of the truth, it would seem. If he cannot hear me, he will not truly know the full breadth of your secret.

Illiom shook her head.

“No, I will not play it safe,” she said out loud. “I will tell him the whole truth, not just part of it.”

“What?” Tarmel asked, his head swivelling to stare at her as if she had suddenly spoken in another language.

“I was not talking to you,” she said gently, no more than a sliver of impatience in her voice. “I was talking to him.”

He is closed, Who commented indifferently. Just like the rest of your kind; but I can hear him through you.

“Through me?” Illiom asked.

Again, she held up her free hand to silence Tarmel before he could voice another question. The raptor shrugged and, turning, looked directly into her eyes.

When he speaks I hear the echo of his thoughts – and of their meaning – but only through you. If you were not here, his words would not reach me.

Tarmel could no longer hold back.

“Illiom, what in Âtras is going on here? What exactly are you trying to tell me?”

Illiom’s laugh was without humour.

“This is why I have waited so long to tell you. I knew this would be impossible!”

That is not entirely true, the owl reminded her.

Illiom scowled at him.

And you are not helping!

She tried to frame an explanation for her Rider.

“I have always felt alone, but never so completely as when I first moved to the mountains. One night I felt so frightened of the solitude that I thought of taking my own life. That was when Who first spoke to me. I guess he took pity on me and realised I would probably not live past the first winter without some help. So he took me under his wing.” A playful smile curled her lip. “He helped me to survive. It is because of him that I am still alive today.”

Tarmel’s astonishment was palpable.

“Spoke to you?”

Illiom cleared her throat.

“Well, he does not exactly speak to me … but we converse,” she said in a quiet voice.

The Rider licked his lips and acquired a look of such concern that Illiom did not know whether to laugh or cry.

This was harder than she had imagined … had she made a mistake? The Rider’s incredulity was so strong that she suddenly wished she could reverse her disclosure.

“Illiom,” Tarmel said in a soft and reasonable voice, “that is just … not possible. How can you …?” his voice faded, leaving the question hanging, unfinished.

She shook her head and looked away, into the night.

“I do not know how it happened, but it did. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before and I doubt it will ever happen again. Who’s mind simply opened up to me one night, before I had even finished building my shelter, and we started to converse. It was eerie and weird and wonderfully distracting! He was just as curious about me as I was about him, and just as fascinated by our connection; nothing like this had ever happened to him either.”

Tarmel did not speak; he looked thoughtful, apparently attempting to take in what she had just told him.

He does not believe you.

Who was right, what on Âtras had made her think that Tarmel would believe her? The leap was too great. It was like expecting him simply to give up the world that he knew and to accept another explanation of reality just on her word … it was too much to ask.

“Fine,” she said. “I understand.”

But the dejection in her voice was so strong that Tarmel had to respond to it. He mumbled some reassurance that he understood, that it was all right, really. But she could no longer listen.

Even Who’s weight – which was slight enough – seemed suddenly too much to bear. Illiom let her arm drop slowly and the owl glided onto a nearby boulder.

Turn away from him, Who suggested then. Then tell him to do something, to make some movement.

Illiom frowned questioningly at her owl for a moment and then, as understanding landed, she laughed like a little girl. And as suddenly as it had landed, her exhaustion lifted again.

She turned away from her Rider.

“Illiom …”

“No,” she said. “Everything is fine! Will you agree that I cannot see you?”

He did not answer immediately, but when he did she detected hesitation in his tone.

“Well, you are facing away from me …”

“Good!” She felt playful, even a little mocking. “Then do something.”

“What?”

“Do something that I cannot possibly see because I am not even looking at you.”

There was just silence for a while then Who hooted, his call containing both encouragement and irritation.

“Go on, do something, even Who is getting annoyed!”

Finally, slowly, the Rider began to comply.

He raised a hand, scratched his head, and turned sunwise. He even practiced a segment of Madon, and with each movement, Illiom delivered a precise description of his actions until the Rider stared at Who with a slack jaw.

Illiom grinned.

“And now, you are just gawking.”

She turned back to face him then, her eyes full of humour and challenge.

She took in the change that was now visible in her Rider. His shoulders were slumped, his mouth still hung open. Even in the weak light she saw that his eyes had grown in size, like those of a child.

Maybe there is hope for him yet.

Illiom ignored the owl’s comment.

“Tarmel,” she started, “I have told you about Who because I needed to. I am tired of secrets …” she paused to swallow and realised how difficult it was to voice what she truly wanted to say. “I think … I am beginning to trust you, Tarmel Claw.”

Was there an easier way to say any of this?

“You have seen me betray things about myself that I had no wish to reveal to anyone, and yet you chose to respect my secrets. You cannot know how grateful I am for that.”

She placed a hand over her heart.

“Now that I have revealed this to you, there is nothing left to hide; there are no more secrets. You now know all that there is to know about me.”

No man has ever known me as you now do, she thought.

Even Who sat still and silent.

And in that silence, under the moonlight, she saw Tarmel smile and shake his head.

“I doubt that so very much, Illiom,” he said, taking a few slow steps towards her. Then seeing her frown, he elaborated. “You may well believe that there is nothing more to you, but I know that there is more. Much more ... I can feel it.”

He had come to a stop less than an arm’s length from her.

“You are a Chosen and no one even knows what that means yet, not even you … and what you do not know, you cannot speak of …”

He moved closer still.

“But thank you for trusting me with this. I know it was not an easy thing to do and I swear by all that I value that I will honour your trust.”

That said he looked at her, his gaze shining with Sudra’s glow. He raised a hand to casually brush at a lock of hair on her forehead.

“Your hair,” he said in a distant, musing tone. “It is growing. It suits you.”

Then his hand moved to the back of her head and, leaning forward, he pressed his lips against hers and held her gently but firmly to him.

Illiom froze.

It was the last thing she had expected.

Her eyes opened wide in complete surprise; she was about to protest and pull away, but her body was doing the exact opposite. She closed her eyes and leaned into her Rider’s kiss.

Her mind had frozen, like a tiny field mouse cornered by a farmyard cat. She felt that this had to be wrong, that it should not be happening. Yet when Tarmel pulled away a little, she grieved and longed for his return. Then when their lips met again, her heart quailed and all her misgivings rose to the surface again.

Was this what she really wanted? For everything to change? Even her friendship with her Rider? Could she allow him to continue?

Could she bear for him to stop?

She felt his hand come to rest upon her cheek and she leaned into it, her heartbeat now in her throat.

His lips, barely touching hers, were soft and warm. She did not know what to do or how to respond. Her body wanted one thing, her mind insisted on another. Yet when Tarmel’s kiss began to grow more intimate, demanding more from her, she pulled back and lowered her face, looking down at the ground between them.

“Tarmel … please...”

He dropped his hand from her cheek and cleared his throat.

“Illiom … I am so sorry. I should not have…”

She quickly brought her hand up and pressed it against his mouth, silencing his words.

“No, no, please. Everything is alright. Just … do not speak.”

She leaned forward and rested her cheek against his shoulder, and after a moment’s hesitation, he tentatively drew her into his embrace.

Only then did Illiom realise that Who was no longer present. The owl had decided to leave them alone.

When they separated Illiom looked at his face, but Sudra was behind him and his face was full of shadows.

“You do realise that I will have to tell Argolan about him?”

When she made no reply he continued.

“This is far too important to remain unmentioned …”

Illiom nodded slowly.

“Yes, I thought that might be so.”

Soon afterwards they walked back to the camp, in silence, each aware of the growing distance between them. They nodded absently at Wind as they passed her.

Back at the camp, they joined the others by the fire. But after a while Illiom, discomfited and saddened by the invisible barrier between them, arose. Avoiding her Rider’s eye, she bade them all goodnight and retired to her bedroll.

The next morning she made a point of sitting with Tarmel at breakfast. The Rider smiled at her and it was almost as though everything was as usual - as if nothing had happened.

Almost.

But the truth was that she had revealed the existence of Who to another.

And Tarmel had kissed her.

The overcast sky mirrored Illiom’s own mood perfectly.

At one point she stole a glance in the Rider’s direction, but he caught her look and held it hostage for longer than she felt comfortable. It was Illiom who pulled her gaze away first.

Had she not grown up at all in these past ten years?

Annoyed with herself, at her ridiculous immaturity, she busied herself with the preparations for the day ahead.

Any dust that still lingered in the air as they set out soon settled after a brief but intense downpour. The rain lasted less than a half hour, yet in that time it drenched them all and formed pools and rivulets all across the surrounding landscape.

Half an hour later, the only signs that it had rained at all were the freshness in the air and the intense blue of the sky’s dome. The cloud cover had completely vanished and all the pools and puddles had drained away, sucked up by the thirsty earth and evaporated by the sun-god’s rays.

The hills and mountains on the distant horizon leapt forward crisp and clear with renewed visibility.

Over the next few days, Illiom felt that she was descending into a dream defined by vivid ochres, russets and the earthy hues of the parched Iolan landscape. The bright blue dome overhead contrasted sharply with the land that stretched away in every direction.

Illiom was sure that Tarmel would have fulfilled his duty and reported to Argolan by now, but when she chanced upon her occasionally, the Shieldarm showed no change in her disposition towards Illiom.

It was the thirteenth day since they had left Kuon, and halfway through the afternoon Grifor pointed directly ahead.

“Smoke ...,” she said, “coming from that mountain, over there.”

“Mount Shantan,” Kassargan said. “By tomorrow afternoon we will be in Iol’s capital.”

Illiom looked to where Grifor was pointing, and although she saw the dark shape of a mountain towering above a cluster of distant hills, she could see no sign of any smoke. Yet the sight of their destination spurred them on, and between a trot and a canter they strived to bridge the gap that separated them from the still distant mountain.

No one wanted to stop when Iod set that evening so they pushed on, aided by Sudra’s light as she hung in the sky behind them like a lantern, flooding the way ahead with her silver glow.

Even Illiom’s new mount seemed reluctant to stop, though this seemed less out of any desire to obey his rider’s will than a need to keep up with others.

Eventually it was the cold of the desert night that made them stop. They ate a quick meal in the moonlight, sheltered in a cleft and slept away the few hours that still separated them from the dawn.

When Iod rose, Pell had just enough time to complete his ritual to the God before they were back in the saddle, making their way towards Mount Shantan and Calestor.

Not for the first time, Illiom wondered what manner of a place the Iolan capital would turn out to be. All around her for days now, she had seen nothing but stone, sand, and dust. No growth of any kind to soften the starkness of this inhospitable land - so different from the lush and generous forests around the Sevrocks! So harsh and alien...

The plume of smoke that Grifor had seen yesterday became visible to everyone now; it drifted lazily from the far side of the mountain.

“That is a long time for a fire to be burning,” Malco remarked.

“That is no fire,” Kassargan said, looking very much like someone trying not to smile. “It comes from the mountain.”

This announcement was followed by a long hollow silence.

“Are you saying that Mount Shantan is a volcano?” As Scald asked his question he kept his eyes trained directly ahead and did not look at the descrier. A deep frown furrowed his brow. “An actual, live volcano?”

Beaming, Kassargan nodded.

“Indeed.”

A longer silence followed

“And that is where you have chosen to place your capital?”

“That is where Calestor is, yes; inside the crater.”

Scald shook his head slowly.

“And there was I thinking that King Varadon must have been half-crazed to build Kuon on top of Varadon’s Keep … who goes and builds a city inside a volcano?”

“Someone on good terms with the volcano, perhaps?” the descrier asked mockingly.

The road’s condition improved markedly as it neared their destination, becoming broader and increasingly well maintained. Soon it wound its way along the slopes of the hills that lay between them and their destination, wending ever higher, unerringly making for the towering black peak of the mountain. Here and there it had to rely on stone ramparts for support, and they crossed a number of bridges spanning ravines that were no better than dry and sand-ridden fissures.

Illiom gazed upon the unfolding landscape with growing apprehension.

Iod was shining high above the mountain and directly into their eyes when they came up against a grim wall of black stone. The road seemed to have come to a sudden end, but this was just an illusion that was dispelled as they drew closer and saw a narrow defile that admitted them beyond the barrier and towards a stone gateway. Here a number of soldiers in red and silver livery crouched, focused upon the rolling of a handful of bone dice. They looked up with curiosity at the party’s approach. One soldier stood up and moved away from the others to intercept their party.

He said something unintelligible and Kassargan responded in kind.

The exchange continued for a few more moments and ended with the man looking back towards his comrades.

“Callani,” he called out, and one of the younger soldiers, a woman, looked up. The man who had called her attention nodded in the direction of the gateway. “Shant ekar sun maularahadis.”

The young woman stood, gave the game one final, regretful look and sprinted towards the gate. She was soon gone from sight and a few moments later they heard the sounds of a horse galloping off into the distance.

Kassargan led the Chosen and their escort after her, past the guard post and into the defile itself. Sheer walls of rock loomed on either side as they made their way towards a second gate.

Illiom saw Tarmel glancing up at the black slope with a calculating look, one that Malco also noticed.

“Are you also thinking barbican?”

Tarmel nodded.

“Aye, and entirely natural too,” he replied. “Crude, but effective.”

“With the advantage of no upkeep,” said Malco, passing a hand through his short ginger hair.

Illiom, who was becoming used to the way soldiers of the Ward communicated with each other, intuited that this conversation had something to do with warfare. She paid it no heed.

Up ahead the second gate stood open, unmanned and inviting.

They rode through, unchallenged, and there the entire vast bowl of the mount’s crater lay displayed before them.

“Oh, blessed Sudra …!” Elan exclaimed, before subsiding into silence once more.

The view ahead bore no resemblance to how Illiom had anticipated the inside of the volcano would look.

The crater’s entire expanse was filled with a dense jungle that teemed with life and sound. The only place not covered in growth was close to the centre of the bowl. Here, a large lake stretched and, from its dark blue waters, a single structure emerged: a great earth-hued building with a hollowed centre that accommodated yet more trees and greenery.

The trees here had nothing in common with the sad, dry, twisted ones that Illiom had glimpsed around Sur. Instead these were their opulent relatives, thriving in good loam and blessed with copious rainfall.

Peering into the closest thickets, Illiom saw enormous ferns that rivalled even the trees with their height. Fat creepers and vines hung like living curtains from the highest branches, and explosions of sun-bright yellow flowers and purple blossoms dazzled and drew her in as if vying for her admiration.

The road that led down into the enchanted crater was flanked by palm trees that leaned overhead at alarming angles, the giant fronds shading and protecting them from the sun-god’s direct rays.

Birdsong clamoured from every direction.

When a flock of bright parrots suddenly erupted from the greenery to cross their path, it was as if the flowers themselves had sprouted wings to fly away.

Illiom’s eyes smarted as she breathed in the fresh, heady scents of the jungle and allowed herself to be lured into its living spell.

All the rigours of the desert, the lash of the wind and sand, the heat of the day, and the cold, cold nights, faded and vanished in this place, becoming no more than distant memories. None of the world’s troubles lingered here, and the wounds of indecision, regret, or loss, found no purchase here. They simply withered and died, and lay where they were discarded; immediately forgotten and unmourned.

“Where is the city?” Argolan sounded dumbfounded as she turned to Kassargan.

“It is here, Shieldarm ...” the descrier replied, waving a hand, “all around us in fact, as you will soon be able to see for yourself.”

It was not long before Illiom saw splashes of red and ochre amidst the emerald lushness: these had to be the first buildings, half hidden by the forest growth. The outskirts of Calestor were indeed already sprawling secretly around them.

The first roadside building that they passed looked like a very old structure. Upon its flat roof a tribe of grey-brown monkeys preened each other in the sun. A few of them turned their pretty faces towards the passing humans, their large, curious eyes following them as they filed down the road.

It was the first time Illiom had seen the little creatures, and she was immediately captivated and delighted by their uncannily human proportions. She watched them for as long as they remained in view.

Ahead, more dwellings began to appear, congregating into larger clusters, and soon pale stone and mud brick began to lay equal claim to the crater’s basin.

Ahead, in the distance, the imposing dome she had glimpsed from the crater’s rim rose high over buildings and trees alike.

“That is Maularahad’s Keep,” Kassargan answered when Elan asked her about it. “Lord Provan’s abode, Seat of Justice and House of Knowledge, all in one. Calestor’s equivalent to your Royal Palace back in Kuon.”

The road finally transformed into a broad avenue flanked by dwellings and shops. The men, women, and children who walked this avenue alongside them were, Illiom mused, just as resplendent in their brightly dyed robes as the birds had been in their plumage. She became self-conscious then of the plain, drab clothing of her group, a distinction that could not fail to single them out as strangers.

They dismounted and walked their horses when the street became too crowded for safe riding. Their passage did not go unremarked; people stared at them with overt curiosity and none attracted as much interest as Azulya. A few Iolans even extended their hands tentatively towards her, to stroke the pale blue skin of her bare arms with their fingertips. Some simply gaped, for as long as they could, into the embers that glowed in her eyes.

Most of the people they passed were tall, but few were taller than Azulya, and her height made her stand out more than the rest, advertising her differences to all and sundry. Azulya responded with nods and smiles and sometimes even with a returning touch.

In this way, they made their way deeper into Calestor and soon the city began to reveal herself to them.

Despite being shrouded by the lushness of the jungle, the Iolan capital was not a sparse scattering of dwellings struggling to keep the jungle at bay. Rather, it was densely inhabited, crowded with two and three-storied buildings that coexisted superbly with their natural surroundings. The illusion that the jungle had supremacy even here was enhanced by the fact that every spare bit of unpaved earth and walled garden erupted with green growth.

They walked past buildings that had been intentionally shaped to accommodate the trees that grew amongst them. The roofs of buildings were all planted with shrubs and ferns, creepers cascaded elegantly down the sides of many walls, hiding them and even half-smothering doorways and windows. It was a small wonder that the city itself was not visible from the crater’s rim.

In other respects Calestor could never have been confused with Kuon. They passed all manner of shops and stalls displaying their wares on the streets, only here the vendors and shop-keepers engaged them without hesitation, openly inviting them to examine their goods or to taste their foods. Most of them addressed the travellers in Common.

The friendly, resounding voices and extraordinary promises caused Illiom to smile. She shook her head regretfully at many invitations as she pressed on with the others towards the centre of the city, but resolved that she would leap at the first opportunity to explore the capital.

They emerged at last from the tangle of dwellings, shops and people into the vast open space dominated by the lake and the dome that rose from its waters.

The group stepped onto a stone bridge that connected the Keep to the city. As they crossed it, Illiom marked the white, long-necked waterbirds that dotted the lake’s surface by the hundreds, swimming amidst the expanse of reeds and water-lilies or perching upon small islets, completely covering them with their numbers.

Halfway across they were intercepted by a woman in a bright green and yellow outfit. She hailed Kassargan and bowed deferentially before her.

“Vian lestrel, Saman,” the woman said in Iolan before turning to address the rest of them. “And welcome to you also, honoured guests.” She fell into step alongside them. “Lord Provan bids you to come and see him directly.”

“Directly? Before we refresh?” Kassargan sounded surprised.

The woman nodded.

“Yes, you will find him in the Pentangle, as usual.”

As they neared the entrance at the end of the bridge, a score of young maidens approached and relieved them of the horses.

The party followed Kassargan and her Iolan companion through a petal-shaped entrance and then along a series of pristine halls. Nowhere did Illiom see a straight line: every structure and every wall within the Keep was either curved, arched or rounded. Nowhere did jagged corners or sharp edges meet the eye.

But the most astonishing thing was that despite the absence of any windows, the halls and spaces they passed through were all brightly lit, as if by daylight. It seemed to Illiom that the light cascaded from everywhere at once: from the vaults that arched and shaped the ceilings, from the long, thin pillars of pure opalescent white that supported them, and even from the white marble floors themselves. Whatever the source of this light, the end result was that everyone was bathed in a preternatural glow and nothing within the Keep cast any shadow at all.

Illiom could not stop staring at her companions. It was as though she was seeing them for the first time for they all looked like Gods or beings of light: radiant, serene and all-powerful.

A faint sound of drumming seeped into Illiom’s awareness as they progressed deeper, and somewhere a voice sung a plaintive melody that soothed and yet also stirred up forgotten memories.

Illiom then tried to recall the awe that she had felt upon first setting foot in Eranel’s Palace. She remembered being deeply touched by its grandeur, opulence and size, yet she had not been as affected as she was here.

Even here, inside the Keep, monkeys roamed. She spied small groups of them scattered around one hall, sleeping or grooming each other. One grey elder pranced amongst them, tail erect, as if he was the builder and the true master of this magnificent structure.

After crossing many such spaces, they unexpectedly found themselves stepping outside into the open air once more.

“This is the Pentangle,” Kassargan said. “It is the open area at the centre of Maularahad’s Keep; the building surrounds it much like the rim of a wheel surrounds its hub. Here the students of the Arcanum study and practice their art; here all important gatherings take place.”

The sheer size of the Keep began to dawn upon her: for it to contain such a great open space, it had to be enormous.

The drumming and the singing became louder as they progressed further into the Pentangle; Illiom felt a thrill course through her, as if the music was heralding something magnificent, preparing her for some grand experience.

As they stepped beyond a broad fringe of trees and shrubs that clamoured around its perimeter, the Pentangle revealed itself for what it truly was: an enormous amphitheatre, capable, Illiom thought, of accommodating more people than she could possibly count.

“How is it that all the plants are so luxurious and green?” Elan asked, gawking at the spacious opening. “You are surrounded by desert; surely it cannot rain that much, even up here ...”

Kassargan smiled.

“Oh, but it does rain! It rains every night when the Pentangle is not in use. The Ravana of Anaquel make certain of that.”

Scald screwed up his face.

“The what?”

“Ravana of Anaquel,” Kassargan repeated. “They are the Eilo Namers who are mastering what we call the Ravana, the power of Calling. They are attuned to the elemental powers of Anaquel, the elementals of water.”

They continued walking along the Pentangle’s perimeter. This was so densely treed in parts that, for much of the time, the central clearing remained completely hidden from view.

Kassargan veered towards a cluster of elms, and from there stepped onto a narrow pebble path. They followed her until they emerged from the thicket into a smaller clearing, one outlined by a ring of palm trees and a dense tract of shrubbery. Here, a cluster of white-robed children and youths sat in the shadows of the large palm fronds. An old man sat in their midst and Illiom did not have to ask anyone about his identity.

This had to be Provan, the Draca and King of Iol.

As she drew closer he turned his face towards them and she saw the white orbs of his eyes.

Undina gasped, the tribal’s small sound accurately expressing the shock and surprise that Illiom also felt. Provan, like Kassargan, was blind. Unlike the descrier, however, Illiom somehow knew that the Draca’s eyes had never seen the light of day.

Like all the children around him, the Draca was also robed in white. As they approached, he came slowly to his feet, stepped down from the low marble dais he had been using as a seat and, stepping carefully amidst his audience, made his way towards the new arrivals.

Without hesitation he made directly for Kassargan, reached for her shoulders with his hands and drew her into a silent embrace, one that held within its folds the tenderness of a young mother for her week-old newborn. They held each other for a small eternity.

Illiom closed her eyes and waited.

A sweet feeling filled her heart. She had no doubt that it emanated directly from the sacredness of this meeting. Without a single word Provan had conveyed his depth of empathy and sadness for the descrier’s loss, something that could not have been expressed better through any other means.

At last the two drew apart and as the Draca stepped back, his awareness palpably expanded to include the rest of them.

“So, you are the fabled Chosen,” he pronounced. “And these are your valiant escorts.”

Provan’s voice was deep, resonant, and completely different from Menalor’s gentle firmness. Like the Albradani Draca, his voice conveyed a power that went beyond mere authority: his power required no one’s mandate. Like the ocean, it emanated from depths that were both invisible and unfathomable.

“Come, sit with us while we conclude what we are doing here,” he invited and, turning, retraced his steps back to his dais. The Chosen complied, but the Riders hesitated and looked towards Argolan for direction, uncertain as to what they should do.

“All of you,” the Draca added, without bothering to turn.

They all did as he bade them, but they were forced to break up as a group and to mingle with the children, for the only free spaces were scattered unevenly amongst them.

The children looked up into their faces with the bright-eyed alertness of innocent youth, and moved to accommodate them.

“We will continue now in the Common tongue, out of deference for our guests. These are the ones that I have spoken of,” Draca Provan began, as he stepped back onto the dark green marble of the dais. He gathered his robes about him and sat, in one fluid motion.

“They are the Chosen, destined to hold the balance of the light and the dark within their grasp.”

The dais elevated him just enough to enable him to be seen by all, without dominating over the gathering.

Illiom smiled at a young boy of maybe eight summers who looked back at her with easy confidence. She sat on the grass beside him and turned towards the King.

Provan was significantly older than Menalor, but Illiom wondered if he might also be wearing some kind of a disguise, just like Menalor had when they first met him. The whites of the Draca’s eyes shone fiercely and seemed to be actually looking at them, embracing them all in their unseeing sweep.

“Remember, however, that the same is true for each and every one of you. Everyone alive is, within their own sphere, also chosen to hold this balance. It is your birth right and your legacy, and not something to be ignored or dispensed with lightly.”

Illiom leaned forward. Though the Draca was addressing his young audience, she wondered if his words might not be intended for the rest of them as well.

“We have been talking about the nature of the Garden and about the dance of the Gods, and of the balance that exists between Iod and Sudra, and between Irrsche and Krodh. We have noted how the two pairs are arranged first and foremost as opposites: one male and the other female, one sun and the other moon. And yet, as we have already remarked, the Light does not pair with the Dark. So now I ask the next obvious question: why is it that male pairs with female and sun pairs with moon, but Light does not pair with Dark? Why does Light pair only with Light, and Dark only with Dark?”

“Is it perhaps an issue of symmetry?” asked Scald, one eyebrow raised.

Illiom looked at her fellow Chosen. His cowl was up and almost nothing could be seen of his face. Just behind him she saw Malco close his eyes and shake his head in a silent but overt display of ill-tempered resignation.

Illiom was therefore surprised by the Draca’s response.

“You are more correct than you may think, yet the question remains unanswered. Why?”

Illiom looked at the faces of the surrounding children. Surely most of them were too young to even understand such a question. She herself had no idea what the answer might be, so how could they?

Yet a remarkable number of them raised their hands and turned their eager faces towards the King of Iol. The Draca singled one of these out, a young lad with a freckled face and fiery hair that rivalled even Pell’s.

“Saleb?”

“Because Ataram’s first act of creation was also one of separation: Ataram first manifested itself as Light and Dark. These two are opposite and there is no meeting ground between them: one creates, the other destroys; one forms, and the other dissolves.”

“Indeed,” the Draca confirmed. “They are like the two sides of a single coin, inextricably bound, yet forever destined to face away from each other. They are also forced by their very nature to face away from the truth of their Oneness, from the truth that they are both facets of one coin. Go on, Saleb.”

“The second act of creation was the act of separation into God and Goddess and into Star and Moon. This did not affect Ataram directly but it did affect both the Light and the Dark, causing them to act as inverted mirrors of each other. As each split was formed, these found themselves irresistibly drawn to their opposites: God to Goddess, Sun to Moon.” The lad paused and glanced shyly in Scald’s direction. “As the honourable Chosen has said, it is a symmetry of sorts.”

Draca Provan nodded.

“So it is, so it is ... in their densest manifestation, in physicality, the Gods are attracted to their opposites: Iod to Sudra, Irrsche to Krodh. But in their subtle make up, in their essential energy and nature, the light is only drawn to the light and the dark only to the dark. That explains much, does it not? But can anyone see how this opens up another and perhaps more disquieting question?”

A long silence ensued. Provan waited patiently for a time but, in the end, he elaborated further.

“Does anyone know why next year’s Illignment is the cause of such great concern for so many?”

The same lad replied.

“Because the balance could become disrupted; the Gods themselves would never be in danger, of course, but Ataram’s Dream is sustained by the balance and cannot continue without it.”

“And how could this balance be disrupted?” the Draca pressed.

Another silence followed.

“Can anyone say what the Gods of Dark are hoping to achieve during the Illignment?” pressed the King.

This time Elan stood up. She held her hands palm against palm, clasped in front of her, one over the other.

“They hope to separate Iod and Sudra,” she said.

Provan stood in turn and bowed to Elan.

“Priestess,” he acknowledged, and then turned his attention to the rest of the assembly. “Heed now the words of Elan, Daughter of Sudra. Can you please elaborate on what will happen during the Illignment, priestess?”

Elan hesitated for just a moment, then quickly recovered.

“Certainly, my Lord. The Illignment will be shaped by a series of events which I will now separate in order to better explain them, but it should be understood that they are not separate, for they will unfold in the same lapse of time. So, the first event in this arbitrary order is the eclipse itself, when Sudra poises herself between Iod and our world, Âtras. This has happened many times before and, while unsettling to experience, it has never been a cause for lasting turmoil. The second event is that Krodh, the Black Moon, will in turn place himself between Sudra and Iod, effectively separating them from each other. The third event is that Irrsche will come close enough to Iod to actually exchange fire with the Light-Bringer.”

“Thank you, Daughter,” Provan acknowledged. “Who can tell me what lies hidden within Daughter Elan’s words?”

A young man in his late teens stood up.

“Well, my Lord, the first thing is that by placing himself between Iod and Sudra, Krodh will deprive our world of its link to the Gods of Light.”

“But how is that so? It will be between Sudra and Iod but there will be nothing to separate Sudra from Âtras…”

“Yes, my Lord, but by placing himself between the two Gods of Light, Krodh will deprive Sudra of Iod’s light and her own light will diminish until she becomes temporarily blind. Sudra will no longer see Iod and we in Âtras will no longer be able to see either.”

“Very good, Illoni, but what of Irrsche? What will the Goddess of Dark be up to while Krodh is busy separating everything?”

A girl near the edge of the clearing stood up now.

“With the light of Iod and Sudra gone, Irrsche’s fiery glow will be all that illumines our world. Also, she will feed upon Iod’s fire. This will be the only light to bathe Sudra, until the moon glows red and becomes the Blood Moon spoken of by the prophecies. When that happens all of our dreams will become lost and all of our nightmares will take form. It will be the end of Ataram’s Dream.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Draca Provan prompted, sounding neutral.

After a brief hesitation, the young woman answered.

“Not in itself, no. But there would be a period of intolerable suffering for everyone in embodiment. Suffering is not desired by the Light, only by the Dark. It would be preferable to avoid it.”

Provan now turned to face Elan fully, his expression grave.

“What kind of omen does such an event bode, Daughter?”

“An ill one.”

“An ill one indeed, at least from one perspective: ill for Ataram’s Garden, ill for the Gods of Light. If Irrsche and Iod exchange fire they will both become corrupted as a result. And though this is clearly a sacrifice that Irrsche is willing to make for the sake of the repercussions that will plague the world, this still remains an entirely limited way of understanding the scale of what lies before us.”

Provan tilted his head to one side, as if considering some alternative.

“What have we learned in the gatherings we have held over the last four moons? Is it not that the outer is mere illusion? A highly convincing reflection of truth, but not actually truth itself?”

The Draca seemed to be looking out over the heads of the assembly, at the trees along the clearing’s perimeter.

“Have we not seen, time and again, that mastery over this play that is unfolding on the stage of life can only be found in our ability to pull the strings of our internal puppets? That the actors we perceive as being outside of us are in fact all of them within us, and have always been here and only here?”

He lifted his face towards the heavens.

“To remember and to know – to truly know - that your life, this city, the whole of Âtras, and even the entire vastness that encompasses all the stars are contained within a single tear-drop, is the greatest accomplishment you can achieve …” The Draca-King paused. “And if we forget all else, we should remember this: whether that tear is one of sadness or one of joy. This is the only meaningful choice that is truly ours to make ...”

He became silent again, allowing the weight of his words to sink into his audience.

“We have seen how our perception of the nature of reality is limited by the inevitable limitations of our minds. On the morrow we will begin to explore other and more powerful ways of perceiving truth, ways that have nothing to do with reason or understanding, ways that could even set us free from this wheel of illusion that persists in keeping us bound.”

Provan let the words hang over his audience for a moment longer. “And now you may return to your other pursuits. We will gather again at the fifth hour, as usual.”

The young people stood up and began to disperse and Illiom watched them go. She was sure that she had not understood much of what the Draca had said, but her whole being was leaning forward with anticipation.

When only the Chosen and their Riders remained, the Draca of Iol spoke again.

“I have asked that you come to me now because this is probably the best opportunity that we will have to dispense with certain matters that you may prefer to keep private.”

The King reached for a basket of woven reeds that sat beside him on the marble dais, and pulled from it a small case of red wood. He placed it between himself and the dais’ edge.

“Here is what has drawn you here to Calestor, above anything else.”

They all stared at it but no one moved.

“Well, do you want it or not?” he chuckled.

Illiom was the closest and so she stood, took a few steps, and picked up the container as though it held something fragile or dangerous.

She opened the box and there, within folds of velvet, lay the third Key. To Illiom it looked indistinguishable from the other two. She brushed it hesitantly with her fingers but the disk did not respond to her touch, so she pulled it from its casing and handed it to Tarmel, who in turn passed it on to Scald.

The Key remained persistently inert as it passed from hand to hand. Only when Malco touched it did a jade-green glow fill his hands. It was as though he stood in a sacred glade and a bright ray of the sun-god had just filtered through to illumine his face with forest hues.

None looked more surprised than the Blade himself.

Malco looked up at Provan in awe and some of the green light of his Key worked its way into the pale blue of his eyes. He took in a deep, slow breath.

“I was not really certain until this very moment that this had not been simply one big mistake,” he said. “I could not believe that I was really one of the Chosen.”

“What we believe of ourselves often falls far short of the actual truth,” Provan commented mildly. “It is just another shortcoming of our minds … but the important thing is that you now have your third Key. Four more and you will be able to seek the Orb itself.”

“Do you know where the other Keys are?” Scald asked.

“Of course.”

“Will you tell us where they are then?”

“Has Menalor not informed you that there are certain strictures that prevent us from disclosing all that we know?”

Scald sighed wearily.

“I was just hoping that you might be able to lend us some practical assistance ...”

“Oh, and so I shall, so I shall … but not by risking your lives, nor the success of your quest. In just four days’ time the Varagan Draal, our long-anticipated Trial of Mastery, will be held here, in this very Pentangle. You will attend as my guests and may decide on how best to proceed with your quest after that event is over. You will witness wonders and achievements that many of our finest have been preparing and honing to perfection for the past thirteen years. You will gain something from that spectacle, of that I am certain ...”

He smiled knowingly.

“Every Varagan Draal to date has been an entirely unique event, and each new generation brings to it new and better ways of perceiving and expressing power, of deepening our understanding and enhancing our knowing. Surely you must know that I have not invited you here merely to be entertained …” The Draca chuckled to himself for a moment. “No, far from it! Please consider what you will see here as a preparation for what lies ahead.”

“My Lord ...” Azulya started, but Provan stopped her with a slight gesture of his hand.

“Just Provan will do,” he instructed.

“Provan, then ... we are honoured that you have asked us here. Forgive us if we seem anxious to seek all the help that we can muster. We ... well, I anyway, feel as if we are still floundering at the very edges of our true purpose. We still have little clarity and even less answers …”

“Then trust that what unfolds does so with good reason,” the Draca interrupted. Illiom became very alert, sensing that his words were dripping with hidden guidance even while he was revealing precious little. “Trust that knowing will come to you in measures that you can handle and in ways that will keep you safe.”

“But how are we meant to act if we still do not even understand what we are meant to be doing?” Scald asked. “If knowledge comes to us in dribs and drabs, how can we make informed decisions …?”

Scald’s words floundered as Provan again raised a hand to stop him.

“Understanding? Knowledge?” the Draca asked.

He shook his head slowly.

“Understanding and knowledge have nothing to do with any of this. The knowing that I speak of has nothing to do with the machinations of minds who think they understand everything but in fact understand nothing.” He made a flicking, discarding gesture with his hand. “All understanding is of the mind and it is nothing but illusion. It is meaningless and barren, and it will not yield any fruits that are not illusory themselves.”

There was so much power and passion in Provan’s delivery that even the outspoken Scald seemed lost for words in the wake of the Draca’s retort.

Yet, in the next breath, Provan’s voice seemed to lose its charge. He spoke softly once more, as if he was changing the subject.

“Knowing, on the other hand, is something that flowers from within.” As he spoke these words, he brought a hand up to his chest and laid it flat against his heart. “It does not come preceded by any thought or by any act of will: it is a gift from the depth of mystery …”

His words faded and were followed by a span of silence.

Malco, who had been completely absorbed in his newly acquired Key, looked up.

“What of the events all around us, then? What of this sense of urgency that I feel barking at our heels. The situation in Kuon is far from rosy and we bear terrible news regarding Draca Sconder ...”

Provan interrupted him.

“Our minds are forever lured by distraction. With every shock and each outrage we slowly but surely sink deeper into its web of illusion … and move further away from the truth that beckons from within.”

The Draca shook his head, his expression resigned.

“We already know that Sconder has been slain,” Provan admitted at last. “In fact, we knew it the very moment that it happened. It was on the last day of the year past. Even Sconder himself knew that it was coming, and when the time arrived, he was ready.”

Illiom frowned.

Did he say the last day of the year past?

Scald stared at the Draca.

“But then … Menalor must have known about it when we first met him. Why did he not speak of it, then? How would that revelation have endangered us?”

Provan’s white eyebrows arched high.

“There is a vast gulf of difference between being told something and experiencing it for oneself, would you not say? You, in particular, Chosen Scald, have displayed a dogged refusal to believe what is in plain sight. How much weight would you have placed on hearsay, even if it had come from a Draca? Besides, the experience of scrying was needed to unlock some of your preconceptions and thereby open your minds to what is possible …”

Scald’s face blushed angrily, but he held his tongue.

Illiom was still struggling with Provan’s revelation. She felt as though on the verge of an elusive awareness.

The last day of the year past … how could that be?

“But, with all respect … that is impossible!” Sereth exclaimed, sounding bewildered. “It would mean that half a year had passed between the time of his death and the time when we saw Sconder’s body in Kassargan’s scrying … how could that be when there was no sign of decay on his body. His blood was still glistening, fresh, like he had only just been killed …”

Sereth’s words harnessed Illiom’s attention.

Her fellow Chosen had exposed a part of what was puzzling her, but there was more. The last day of the year had been the day before Celest’s birthday. The day before the Princess had been gifted the mare that, having bolted, had led her to the ruins and, as a result, to receiving the chest containing the Prophecy. There was something so precise about the timing of these events that she felt a tingle of realisation travel down her spine.

“The ripples of a life offered up in service have surprising side effects at times,” Provan was saying. “The greater the purity of one’s service, the harder it is for decay to set in and take hold.”

Somehow, these words had the effect of stilling the storm of thoughts that were assailing Illiom’s mind. If she had needed any reminder that there were deeper powers at work in the unfolding of their quest, Provan’s revelation had had that effect.

But the Draca was not done.

“There is another purpose for wanting to see you immediately upon your arrival here. I want to impart to you news of what has recently happened in Evárudas, something that will undoubtedly set your minds spinning once more.”

Having reclaimed their attention, Provan continued.

“The Kroeni envoy was slain in the Evárudani capital, along with his entire family, retinue, guards, and servants. No one in his quarters was spared.”

A stunned silence followed these words.

The Chosen glanced at each other.

“Who was responsible?” Sereth asked.

“It seems that the culprits were members of the Evárudani Legion itself …”

“What? But that makes no sense!” Scald said, his eyes taking on a haunted look. “Why would the Legion slay the Kroeni envoy? How does this in any way benefit Evárudas?”

“When did it happen?” Illiom cut in.

“Five nights ago,” Provan answered. “Princess Sestel of Evárudas is young and untried, but she has taken a strong stance in this crisis, no doubt under the guidance of Steward Iltiaran. After the deed came to light she ordered her own Guard to hunt down the perpetrators, with the intent of bringing them to justice. Kroen, in turn, responded to this with a demand that, once captured, those responsible be surrendered to them. I do not know if the Princess meant to comply with this demand or not, but the matter is now completely out of her hands. Her Guard did indeed succeed in cornering the party responsible before they could flee the city, but the culprits did not surrender. They fought back with such savagery that Sestel’s Guard were forced to slay them all, and not without significant cost to themselves. The Princess is now in the unfortunate position of having nothing but corpses to show the Kroeni.”

“This is starting to sound horribly familiar,”Azulya commented.

Undina gave the Kroeni woman a confused look which cleared a moment later.

“Oh, you mean ... they have black stones, here?” she asked, bringing her hand to her heart.

Azulya nodded.

“What else do we know that can cause such treachery, even amongst the most loyal soldiers?”

Several nods indicated that the others were thinking along similar lines. Illiom saw Elan arch her back and roll her shoulders; perhaps the priestess was recalling the agony of having a crossbow bolt lodged there. Mist, her Rider, reached towards her and rested his hand on her shoulder in a reassuring and companionable manner.

Sereth had also noted Mist’s gesture. He caught Illiom watching him and raised his eyebrows in a speculative fashion.

“Well, fine and good, but it still makes very little sense,” Scald said, shaking his head. “Even if it is Kroen who is behind it, why kill their own …” Scald stopped in mid-sentence and then smacked his forehead with the palm of his open hand. “Oh, no, no, no … it is just a pretext! Nothing but a pretext …”

“A pretext for what?” Elan asked, her eyes filling with alarm.

“Maybe Kroen want war ...” said Undina in a small voice.

Argolan nodded in agreement.

“Yes, this is the pretext that Kroen has been working towards.”

A long silence fell over the gathering as each mulled over the implications of what they had just learned.

The Draca’s voice breached that silence.

“A watchful eye upon future events will undoubtedly betray the hand of the puppet master in this particular play.”

He turned towards the tribal girl.

“You are Undina, are you not? I remember you from when you stayed in our city some years ago. And now you are back again, as one of the Chosen, no less! You seem to have a predilection for our capital.”

Undina nodded.

“Fate bring me this time.”

“Oh, whereas fate had no hand in it last time?” he asked with amusement.

Undina blushed and the lattice of tattoos on her forehead seemed to shine brighter.

“But enough of all this for now. I have achieved what I intended, imparted the news that I wished to impart, and there is nothing useful that any of us can do until we learn more. Idle conjecture will neither slow nor speed up the events that will follow. So go now, for you must be weary from your travels. Enjoy the hospitality of Iol and we shall meet again soon.”

As the Draca stood up, Malco also leapt to his feet. He held the radiant Key in his hands as though it was a sacred relic.

“Lord Draca … Provan, before you go, can you tell me the meaning of this word?”

Provan turned towards him, eyebrows raised.

“It means Compassion, Chosen,” he replied, before descending from the dais and heading towards the grove of trees.

“Compassion? Who would have guessed it?” mused Scald, his tone thick with speculation. “I wonder if these Keys hold aspects that we lack and therefore would benefit from, by nurturing them within ourselves.”

Malco glared at him.

“In that case your Key will probably have the word intelligence inscribed on it.”