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  "I thought the Eye was destroyed," she said.

  Bardow smiled bleakly. "The Acolytes would never allow such a glittering trophy to be damaged." He met her worried gaze with a touch of his old humour. "Suffice to say that I know it's still intact and being kept in the Basilica.

  "We have to have it, Suviel. If the Lord of Twilight's agents are growing in strength mere months before our rebellion begins, we will be forced to rely more heavily on the Lesser Power than we thought."

  "And the Crystal Eye magnifies it, lends force to its effects," Suviel murmured.

  "Exactly," Bardow said, reaching out to take her hand. "I am sorry to have to lay this terrible burden on you but there is almost no-one else I can trust. Guldamar and Terzis are stronger in the Lesser Power, but neither is able to move among ordinary folk with your ease."

  "There are no ordinary folk in Prekine," she said, remembering the white-eyed Acolyte at Wujad's Pool.

  Bardow sighed. "Jeopardy and evil hazards abound where peace and harmony once held sway. If Besh-Darok and the Rootpower were the heart and soul of the Empire, Trevada was its mind, its calm, assessing regard. The Acolytes knew what they were doing when they took our towers and halls for their own. They know how to corrupt everything, even symbols."

  "They cannot corrupt everything," Suviel said, "because they cannot reach everything."

  The Archmage gave a rueful smile then straightened in his chair, as if putting remembrances and regret aside. "Now, go and rest, prepare for the morning. Yes, I'm not asking you to leave before then. I wish it could be longer but time is against us."

  Suviel stood, laid a hand on his shoulder and said: "I shall not fail."

  Bardow looked up at her. "I hope so, Suviel, I hope so. For all our sakes."

  * * *

  In another part of the Temple, a man in a brown cloak came to a door at the end of a corridor and was about to knock when a voice came from within. "Enter!"

  With a shrug he entered, closed the door behind him and leaned against it, weariness making him feel suddenly weak. The room was small with two low cots, a crude trunk and a plain square table at which a short, grey-haired elderly man sat, wrinkled hands cupping a small bowl of water glinting with pinpoints from the candles placed around the walls. The elderly man turned in his seat and fixed him with a frowning look.

  "Well?"

  Coireg Mazaret gave a shaky laugh. "The boy is being sent to one of Volyn's refuges, and I am to go with him."

  "And I will accompany you?"

  "I insisted."

  The older man's frown relaxed. "Excellent. Events are moving in our favour. Lord Ystregul will be greatly pleased."

  At that name, Coireg felt nausea ripple through his innards and he had to grit his teeth to subdue a wave of dizzyness. Ystregul, the Black Priest of the Fiery Tree. A face came to mind, a man with pronounced cheekbones, long black hair hanging in braids, and eyes like daggers. Then he remembered his own hands and arms and chest covered in blood all those months ago, the blood of his father. He shuddered.

  The man pushed the other chair away from the table with his foot. "Sit," he said.

  Gratefully, Coireg went over and sat down heavily. "Seftal, I'm sorry, I - "

  Seftal silenced him with an upraised hand. "The weaving of the Wellsource brings burdens to all its servants, and It takes time to find the strength to bear it. You will be strong soon."

  Coireg almost felt like weeping. The memory of waking to discover that he had murdered his own father was a collar of thorns that choked his every waking hour. It was Seftal, friend and fellow smuggler, who had spirited him away from Casall and, in an abandoned farmhouse, revealed his allegiance to the Wellsource and promised him redemption. Their later meeting with Ystregul had filled him with terror: the Black Priest had also promised him deliverance, but it was Seftal he listened to.

  "Tell me what you know," Seftal said.

  Coireg related all had taken place, both between himself and his brother, and during the brief meeting they had after the War Council.

  "The boy will be guarded by three score of the Hunter's Children, as well as the advisors. An ambush would have to be planned carefully."

  "It will," Seftal said. "We shall be in the enemy's camp and able to seize the boy at the right moment." He smiled. "You have done well, Coireg. Your place in the realm to come is assured."

  "And my dreams?"

  "They will become calm and untroubled," Seftal said soothingly. "All things will be new and sweet, and great power shall be yours to command."

  Coireg breathed in deep as tears welled in his eyes. He covered them with a trembling hand. "When I spoke to him the first time...when he said what he would do, I almost ran. But I faced him, I really did." He shook his head. "Without the clawseed draught you gave me, I don't think I could have gone through with it. I can feel it starting to wane now. Perhaps I could have another draught, just for the rest of the day."

  Seftal was silent a moment as he stared down at the bowl of water, and Coireg's heart seemed to beat in his chest like a slow, heavy hammer. Then he felt a wave of relief as the older man nodded.

  "Yes," Seftal said thoughtfully, without raising his gaze. "Later."

  Chapter Seven

  No sanctuary in the house of pain,

  No life on a tree of fire.

  —Avalti, Foreseeings

  Half a day's ride and seven leagues north of Krusivel, Suviel reined in her horse under a tree near the brow of a hill, and waited for the others to catch up.

  It was in the early morning, as she was dressing, that Ikarno had revealed how the previous night he had pressured Bardow into allowing him to send two companions with her. She had kept any dismay from showing till she was outside the Temple and on her way to the Mage Order's lodge where Bardow had met her on the steps.

  "It changes nothing," he had said in a low voice, drawing her aside.

  "But when we reach Trevada - "

  "Then you tell them." He had spread his hands. "What will they do? Try to stop you? No, they'll offer to help and you will have to decide if they can."

  Shaking her head she stroked her horse's neck as it cropped contentedly at a clump of grass. It was all because of Ikarno worrying about her safety. Yet she was the one who had travelled far and wide while he had stayed in Krusivel. Her expression softened as she remembered last night. Neither of them were youthful anymore, but there had been an intensity to their lovemaking that recalled the beginnings of their relationship five years ago. By the way Ikarno had delighted and aroused every part of her, she knew that he feared for her and wanted to have a perfect memory of her, just as she felt about him. Last night she had been all that he wanted, as he had been for her.

  There was the thud of trotting hooves and she looked up to see Keren approach on a dappled grey. From her face Suviel noticed that she was in a black mood just as the trader Gilly Cordale came into view further back along the bushy defile. The stocky trader was smiling ruefully, his gaze fixed on Keren, and Suviel frowned.

  "Is there a problem?" she said to Keren as she drew up beside her.

  The swordswoman glanced back at the trader and sighed. "Nothing I can't deal with," she said evenly.

  "Ride on ahead," Suviel said. "Stay within sight, though."

  Keren nodded and urged her mount on down the other side of the rise. Suviel waited till Gilly arrived and continued along beside him.

  "I don't think she's interested, Gilly."

  "I think you're right," he said. "For now."

  She gave him an ironic look. "You anticipate a change in her attitude?"

  The trader rocked his head judiciously. "The opening stages of a negotiation do usually seem unproductive. At the moment, she thinks that I'm an ill-mannered boor but as the days pass I shall inadvertently reveal my more sensitive qualities - courage, understanding, warm-heartedness and a loving nature. Gradually, she will become intrigued by these glimpses and eventually..." He grinned. "...the negotiations will be conc
luded."

  She stared at him. Since first meeting him nearly two years ago, Gilly Cordale had never failed to appall her. "I think you underestimate her ability to see through your little performance."

  Theatrically, he put a hand to his chest. "Truly, I am wounded. How do you know that beneath this crass exterior does not lie a noble soul?"

  "Oh, you mean there really is more to you than meets the eye?"

  He laughed quietly and wagged an admonishing finger. "Lady, be careful. You might be taken in by my little performance, too." And he moved ahead a short distance, leaving her to stare after him in bemusement.

  With the jagged heights of the Rukang Mountains at their backs and the foothills becoming thick with woods, they rode the main wagon track till it dipped towards a narrow gorge. Instead of continuing that way, though, Suviel led them along an overgrown side trail heading northeast, parallel with Gronanvel, the great valley which lay beyond the gorge. After several hours slow progress they emerged at the bank of the Errain, one of the rivers that linked together the lakes which ran the length of Gronanvel. The waters there were shallow and easily forded and by the time they were across and safely under cover, the day was almost done. Suviel proposed finding a place to camp and the others wearily agreed.

  It was dusk when they came to a small clearing in a grove of tassel trees, their hanging litrilu blooms filling the air with a light fragrance. Unseen creatures scurried away at their approach and when Gilly dismounted and lit a torch a pair of tiny bull-lizards abandoned their meal of moss atop a large boulder and vanished into the undergrowth. Suviel and Keren were about to dismount too when a small figure jumped up from behind the boulder and darted across the clearing, past Gilly. But the trader was quick on his feet and caught the stranger by the arm. It was a child, a young boy. He cried out and clawed for release, then turned and tried to bite his captor. Gilly uttered an oath, dropped the torch and wrapped his other arm round the boy's chest, holding him immobile.

  "You little brat! - "

  "...let me...let me go..."

  Suviel hurried across while Keren picked up the torch. The boy froze, his eyes wide with fear, as Suviel went down on one knee, facing him.

  "Ease your grip, Gilly. You're hurting him. Now, it's all right, you're safe..." She raised her hands in a calming manner but the boy averted his eyes and began to tremble. He wore rough shirt and trews, both torn and grubby. The shirt had a wet-looking patch of blood on one of arms but she was sure that it wasn't his. Frowning, Suviel lowered her hands. "What's your name, boy?" she said softly.

  Without meeting her gaze he muttered, "Gevran."

  "Gevran - you've seen sorcery tonight, haven't you? What village are you from? Is that where it happened?"

  Suviel ignored Gilly's look of surprise as the boy moved his lips. For a moment there was no sound. Then;

  "They burned everything. They burned our house...and...they said the Mother was evil and the singer was evil..." His voice wavered into sobbing. "...my Da, they burned him too..."

  "Where, Gevran?"

  "...Hanlo..."

  Suviel straightened and looked at Gilly and Keren. "That's less than an hour's ride away."

  "What about the boy?" said Keren. "Should one of us stay here with him?"

  Suviel shook her head, surprised at how calm she was. "He'll have to come with us. There's no knowing what is abroad tonight."

  Gilly released his hold on the boy and stared down at him with a kind of intense compassion. Then he looked up and Suviel saw a cold anger in his eyes.

  "The boy will travel with me," she said. "You and Keren will ride before us and keep alert."

  Keren and Gilly glanced at one another, then nodded and hurried to remount their horses. Suviel reached out a hand to the boy. "Come, Gevran. You'll be safe with me."

  Hesitantly, he took her hand.

  * * *

  They smelled the fires long before they saw them.

  They were weaving a slow, fitful way through the enclosing forest darkness with only the faint radiance of a hooded tallow lamp to keep them from getting lost. The odour of burnt wood was growing stronger, an acrid sharpness that smothered the smells of wet soil and growth.

  The boy Gevran made no sound as he sat behind her with his arms about her waist. It reminded her of her sisters son, Huranach, at that age and how he used to sing a simple little song about horses in time with their mount's gait. The memory was painful and she realised that she had not thought about that part of the past for a long time. But Huranach was dead and no matter how much she wished to bear a child, Ikarno's child, the truth was that her age was against her. Her role now was to play her part in this struggle and hope that the nameless high powers favoured them with good fortune so that the world became a better place for children to be born into.

  Still, she treasured the weight of Gevran against her back and the trust which it implied. I will not let you down, she promised silently.

  Before long a yellow glow could be seen through the trees, made faint and hazy by smoke. Keren doused the lamp and as they approached slowly Suviel commenced the thought-canto of Vigilance. As they drew near she could see a cluster of huts and small barns, some smouldering shells, others still burning furiously. In the middle of the village bodies lay scattered around a half-demolished square stone temple from which a column of smoke rose. The village appeared deserted but from within the Vigilance canto Suviel sensed several strange, flickering presences.

  "Someone's still there," she muttered to the others. "We better circle round, see if we can find them."

  "Can't wait to break up their little party," said Gilly, slipping a small buckler onto his left arm.

  On horseback they slowly skirted the village, eyes scrutinising every shadow, every doorway and window, every huddled, motionless body. Suviel could smell scorched flesh in the air, and heard Gevran sniffle at her back. They were half way round and just starting to get a view of the temple's collapsed rear wall when three men in loose-fitting red garments emerged from it and came purposefully towards them. Each one wore a leather mask across the nose and eyes, and carried a short bow with an arrow already fitted and drawn. They halted a dozen or more paces away, between two smoking huts.

  "Have you come here to pray," said the one in the middle, "or to die?"

  "Pray to whom?" said Suviel, silently preparing another thought-canto.

  "We are the disciples of the great Ystregul, Prophet and Shadowking of the Fiery Tree, he who was betrayed by his consort, abandoned at the Plateau of Arengia. Abase yourselves before its flames - ," The man indicated the temple, still emitting a funnel of smoke, " - and you will be admitted to the ranks of the chosen. Denial is blasphemy."

  "And these villagers?" said Gilly. "Did they deny your god?"

  "They were dancing to a song praising the Whore Mother when we arrived. There is no redemption for the servants of evil. Their spirits have been harvested unto the Tree of Fire."

  "You know," Gilly said. "For a murderer, you talk very prettily."

  A knife-thin smile creased the spokesman's face as all he and his companions raised their bows and took aim. "Your spirits will feed the Fire of the Ages," he said, and the three arrows burst into flame and were released as one.

  Suviel was ready, the canto of Astray whirling in her mind, and she reached out to push, slow and lure. The arrows veered off in smooth curves, vanishing in the dark wood.

  "Keren!...Gilly! Wait - "

  But they had already rolled from their saddles and were on their feet, swords ready, heedless of her cry. The masked disciples tossed the bows aside, drew their own weapons and advanced. Suviel felt an edge of panic as she saw hot green fire glitter along those three blades and hurriedly began another thought-canto, praying she would be in time.

  Gilly leaped forward to engage the nearest enemy and there was a flash as their swords clashed and red and green sparks flew. The trader cried out as some of the sparks landed on his hands and clothing. He backed away,
trying to protect himself with his shield but was forced to parry some blows, causing more showers of deadly sparks. Keren was in similar difficulties, her clothes smouldering in several places as she struggled to defend herself against the other two.

  Watching the deadly fight, Suviel strove to keep her mind clear and calm as the canto of Cadence reached its full potential and the Lesser Power murmured and surged within her. But Gilly and Keren were too close to their opponents to use the Cadence canto as a shield so Suviel reached for the Lesser Power, directing, focussing, gathering it in her chest, filling her lungs till they seemed ready to burst. She felt like a torch, burning with a silver flame that streamed up her spine and into her head. Then she opened her mouth, jaws stretching and released it all in a single, thunderous shout.

  As her horse reared in fright, Gilly and Keren dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, hands covering their ears. Two of the disciples collapsed writhing on the ground but their leader just staggered, mouth gaping in agony, blood trickling from ears and mouth. Then he regained his balance, jaw moving jerkily as he swallowed blood, then he raised his sword and started towards Suviel who had dismounted with the boy and was struggling to control her horse.

  Suviel was unaware of the disciple leader's until Keren shouted a warning. Panic threatened when she looked round and saw him running lightly towards her, his blade exuding a sickly green power. Next to her, Gevran gave a wordless cry of fear and clung to her. Facing that leather-masked killer, she knew she had no time to prepare another thought-canto and was fumbling in her pockets for anything which might aid them when a blackened figure came running and stumbling from a nearby burnt-out huts, a spear clutched in his hands.

  The disciple was mere feet away, bright blade swinging back, when the spear caught him in the side, and ripped bloodily up through his lower chest. The disciple bellowed in torment as the crazed charge flung him to the ground. His attacker, a man in ragged, scorched garments, made noises deep his throat as he pulled out a long dagger and half-fell to his knees. Incredibly, the disciple was still conscious. His mask had become dislodged, revealing burning green eyes which he turned on the blackened man.