To the Haunted Mountains

Prologue

The heights had blown clear of snow the past two nights; the warm winds, the AEdrith, were early, all the more welcome for it. Snow still lay in waist-deep greyed drifts in the vales and canyons, but even this was beginning to melt at the edges, forming little dripping caves. Water plopped in huge drops from winter-bent fir. The sound carried loud across the deep, bowl-shaped valley.

The tower stood as it had for hundreds of years, a blackened, torn hulk. Openings gaped where thick, opaque glass had shattered and still lay in multicolored shards beneath the snow, or where stone had been torn down, bronze and iron sills and doorframes twisted by the fury of long-burned-out fires.

It stood as it had, save for one thing: it was occupied.

Had any of the few hunters within the Foessa chosen to approach from the east, and had he survived long enough to reach the tower this particular night, he would have seen a clearing, a huddle of small, low barracks along the edge of the trees; across from them, the grand stair, the great balcony as large as many a lord’s banquet hall—and, beyond the bank of windows letting onto that balcony, light.

Not the honest light of torch and lantern, no. A red, murky light, the color of a half-healed wound, the color of dried blood.

A hall ran the length of the balcony. The vaulted ceiling vanished in gloom; a polished, tile floor caught light from the smoldering firepit and reflected a sudden red on pale walls. A dais, two grand canopied chairs were barely to be seen against the windows.

Shadows scurried across the room, not-reflections of things fluttering high above, things creeping about the edge of the firepit. A horror moved with them. Fear crawled across the floor, slid from the embers and shivered into the corners.

Two other shadows flickered against the far wall but did not move beyond the motion of the low-burning fire. Man and woman: human-shaped, at least, among the horrors that surrounded them. To these, the two paid no heed. He of the two turned to face the windows and spoke.

"It is done; Chezad has spoken. Even now the old shaman passes the war god’s message to Kanatan. The Tehlatt will retake the Plain within days. Nedao will fall; after that, by our hand, Yls. And Nar."

But my Lord—if the Lammior’s power still does not rise to your bidding—

Oh, that. He laid an arm across the woman’s shoulders, drew her to him. He will answer me, eventually. Calm certainty. In the meantime, I have drawn sufficient knowledge from this place to start down the path I have chosen—

"We have chosen, my Lord," she reminded him. He nodded.

We. They will see, all of them. Fools, all.

All of them. Her voice was no less eager than his. My father—she who would have been yours—

Ah. He laughed, a chill sound that sent the shadows quivering against the far walls and dampened the embers to an even duller red. Does it bother you so much, my sweet? That Scythia was the one I chose first?

Why should it? The profile, seen against the half-moon, was delicate: pale hair, near silver in the light, was piled in jewel-touched curls. "She matters to no one, she is already dead, though she does not know it yet. And I have what she was stupid enough to spurn."

Dead. He laughed again. She, the barbarian who stole her from me, their half-breed brat. All. An excellent beginning point, and a good test. He drew the woman with him to the great double doors set in the far wall. One hand on the latch, he turned, spoke a single word. The firepit flared, sullen red flame swirled and towered toward the ceiling, disturbing a number of huge batlike darkness.

The story is mine to lay before you, by right and by knowledge: alone of those who know the tale, I, Nisana, was present from its Nedaoan beginnings to their end. More: I was party before Nedao’s involvement, and the whole of the histories are known only to me of all those who walk this great valley. Though we of AEldra blood who wear cat’s form are brief of speech, still I take the telling willingly upon myself, that you may know the truth of it.

1

The sky was a spring-blue bowl arched over gently rolling plains. It caught to the west at enormous white-capped, harshly jagged mountains, faded pale eastward to even flatter ground, South, the River Torth faded into distance, edged by the yellow-green grasses of the great marshes.

North: there was, on such a clear day, normally the faintest hint of purple across the horizon to mark the distant bluffs across the River Planthe. Today, there was nothing save a smoke haze.

Tehlatt. The Northern barbarians rode from their strongholds in Anasela, burning and slaying as they came.

The King’s City was a broken beehive, people running wildly through the streets, flying in a disordered mass down the close-paved road that led to the harbor. The double gates were flung wide to accommodate that hysterical traffic and the King’s own household, men stood at the gates, arbitrating sudden disputes, helping parents locate children—aiding the old and ill to conveyance.

The lone horseman lay across his mount’s neck, hands wrapped around her, caught at each other by the wrists. His eyes were pain-narrowed, exhausted slits. The horse limped.

They went unnoted at first in the crush and panic. But then, his ancient charge and her meager bundle of possessions safely loaded onto a cart bound for the harbor. Narsid, a swordsman of one of the minor barons, turned to search out others in need of his aid. The horse staggered; Narsid called for aid and sprinted across the crowded gateway.

There man, we’ve got you, you’re safe. What, in Koderra? his thought mocked. A hasty glance back out the gates and northward assured him the line of burnings had come no closer.

A swollen hand, the nails black with half-dried blood, waved feebly. The rider coughed. I am Gors—Corlinson. I—message for—the King.

Gors, the swordsman whispered to himself. Hard to tell, under all that dirt, the blood-stiffened hair, but he spoke truly. It was Lord Corry’s son, but by all the Mothers at once, here? He glanced up as shadow crossed them. His baron and his captain stood there. M’Lord Grawn, it’s Lord Corwin’s son, he’s hurt.

Can see that, boy. Get him a healer!

He has messages for the King, sir.

Messages. The wounded boy was reviving, a little. The captain knelt with water, then caught at his waist to help him up. Narsid ran ahead with word as Grawn came to the other side.

Brandt’s Grand Reception was light but cold. No fires had been lit. The hall was filled nearly to capacity, crowded with nearby Lords Holder and their armsmen, a few of the household women and servants who had not yet been put aboard ships and sent downriver, and half the King’s Council. The elders were already gone.

Tehlatt. The name was in every thought, if not upon every tongue. The Tehlatt rode south, vanquishing Nedao a horse-length at a time. This was no simple spring raid, such as had plagued the farmers and herders near the Planthe, such as that which had netted the barbarians the whole province of Anasela.

But there was another name on the tongues of those in the Reception at the moment: Ylia. Brandt had just, again, publicly named his daughter and only child his heir and extracted Heir’s Oath from them all. The girl—she was scarce of age and still wore her bright coppery hair plaited—had taken her vows to the King gravely; taken the oath of the Lords Holder and the Council with the same aloof gravity that was clearly as much fright as training.

Nervous whispers echoed across the chamber. It was bad, serious, if he’d swear them to his chosen heir again. As though he didn’t expect to survive.

His choice; in Nedao it had always been King’s choice who might be his heir. But Ylia—not all those present swore to her with good grace. Her father was Nedao’s King; one had only to look at her face to see the young Brandt there. But her mother was an AEldran noblewoman, a member of their Second House. Sorceress. And while not all Nedao felt as the Chosen’s new religion prated, that witches were a black evil, few of the Plainsfolk were comfortable with Scythia’s Powers. Though, most admitted, she never flaunted them, and indeed used little in public save her healing.

In her favor, the girl had little of the look of her mother’s kind, beyond the lighter coloring, the red-gold hair and the hazel eyes in place of the Nedaoan olive skin and brown hair. She was tall, but not as tall as the AEldra. And as to the Power, well, she had some of it, she was after all half AEldra. Fortunately, she seemed to have little skill and to take no interest in the witchery, though most of the Cityfolk were not certain her interest in weaponry was much improvement.

But if she ruled after Brandt, the first woman to do so since Leffna, 500 or more years before, she would need weaponry and battle knowledge. That was law, and had been inflexibly held to even during the Long Peace, 200 years before.

The swearing completed, most of those standing around the chill room went back to their own nervous conversations. The girl on the dais rubbed slender, capable hands down her dark robes, laid them across the King’s shoulders. He then laid his own over them, smiled at her.

Father—

Necessary, the swearing. You don’t doubt that?

No. She didn’t; Brandt knew his people well, and even though she’d spent long hours at his side, she still had much to learn before she could understand and act as well as her father did. But that wasn’t what I was going to say.

Brandt laughed briefly. "That again? We will not argue, Ylia. You are safest away from Koderra, and the only way to manage that is to put you on the Narran ship, Merman."

But I can be of use—

"None to Nedao or to me if you die here. That silenced her, briefly, though her eyes were still rebellious. You are my only child, Ylia." A shadow darkened his eyes momentarily: Beredan. A man’s sons were meant to survive him. I cannot let this child die as foolishly as Beredan did.

But I—

If I were to command you—I seldom do that, daughter. But in this matter— He paused. It is that important to me, Ylia. Believe me. What we do here, I will do better if I know you are safe. His grip tightened on her hands. Promise me. Silence. Promise? She closed her eyes, sighed in resignation.

All right, Father. I swear, she said evenly, to take great care, that no harm come to me, that I may have the ruling after you. A great, she added with a smile of her own, many years hence.

The King wrapped an arm around her and caught her close. I don’t like the sound of that, my girl. You’re too much like your mother, you trap me with words. He sighed. "But so long as you board the Merman this afternoon—swear you will, daughter."

I swear, she whispered. And debark before she leaves harbor, she added firmly to herself. Brandt, she knew, had no inner skill to hear her; the only Power of any kind he had was a sense of when her mother was near, and that was love, not AEldra. She tamped carefully at the inner voice—Scythia could hear her, and she had been as determined as Brandt that their daughter flee with the Cityfolk. And then there was Nisana. But the cat was on her own errands at the moment and unlikely to have an inner ear to her thoughts.

But it was as though a command were laid upon her, as though the Mothers had set a new pattern in her weaving, that she must stay. She must!

Conversation ceased; a pathway opened as Grawn and his captain brought the Lord of Teshmor’s son slowly toward the dais. Oh, gods, Ylia whispered. Father, it’s Corry’s son. She caught at cushions and a thick fur robe; Brandt was at his side as they lowered the boy gently onto the soft pile. Gors opened his eyes briefly, winced and cried out faintly as someone raised him sufficiently to help him swallow a little wine.

Sire. Father—sends word. The Tehlatt have—our walls—have them surrounded. He frowned; hard to remember anything. He hurt, but that took no memory, that just was.

If he asks aid— Brandt began unhappily. Gors shook his head once, stopped abruptly as pain knifed through him, swallowed hard.

No. No aid. Too late—and—not enough. He knows you’ve—no one—to spare. He said— The boy swallowed again and was silent for so long they thought he had fainted.

Get my Lady, find her, Brandt hissed to those behind him. My Scythia, the boy can’t be beyond your skill. It seemed moments, it seemed hours, and the only sound, torn, pained breathing, too shallow to hold for long. And then a warmth ran across his inner being: Beloved. He knew, always, when she was near.

—he said, Gors whispered, sharply catching at the King’s attention again, to tell you that. And—that he was sorry— he gasped for air. Brandt brought him a little more upright. Scythia came across to the boy’s other side. —he couldn’t be of—more aid.

Sorry, Brandt whispered. Tears blurred his vision; he blinked them away. Boyhood friend. Corlin, how like you. But Gors—the boy sagged, closed his eyes. Scythia’s pale, slender fingers stroked the hair back from his brow, baring an ugly cut that ran above his left ear, a blackened and swollen bruise over his left temple. Rest, boy. Concerned, near-black eyes caught at and held his wife’s. Scythia shook her head faintly, shrugged. Uncertain.

I will try. But Nisana—I’ve sent for her. She’s—We’ll try. She glanced around the full chamber. My Lords! I need quiet, either keep it or leave, I beg you. Lord Corlin’s son is gravely injured. A strangled outcry from near the center of the dais. Scythia caught at it, pinned down the source with her wide-set dark-blue eyes. Her mental voice stabbed into her daughter’s thought. ‘Oh, no. Ylia, it’s Lisabetha. By all the Nasath, why did no one think to remove her?’

‘I—I didn’t see her, Mother.’ But as she stood, started toward the shaking girl, Ylia’s youngest honor maiden, Gors’ sister, fell senseless to the floor. The Queen’s old nurse, Malaeth, dropped heavily to the girl’s side. Scythia turned her full attention back to Gors.

Bad. A Nedaoan healer wouldn’t waste his herbs and poultices on one so far gone; most AEldran healers wouldn’t even attempt the task. The Nasath alone knew how he’d reached the City with such a blow to the head. And he’d lost blood—there were slashes through both sleeves, a deep cut in his right calf. She cast a swift, sidelong glance at her husband. His best friend’s son, she couldn’t let him die.

‘Ylia.’ The girl stirred as the inner speech once again touched her.

‘Mother?’

‘He’ll die if I wait for Nisana, you’re the best I have. Join.’ Color burned in the girl’s face; she knelt reluctantly. ‘But—Mother, I can’t! Before all these people? And, you know how little aid I can be, he’ll die anyway, if you—’

Scythia’s mouth set in a hard line. ‘He won’t die, if we can help it! This is no time for argument, there’s enough in you to back me, and there’s no time to move him. Join!’

Her face a hot red, Ylia caught at her mother’s free hand, closed her eyes, joined. Silence. She tried to concentrate on the healing itself, on Gors—on anything but the anxious, curious, staring people behind her, her own sense of inadequacy. That never helped, her mother told her so, often enough.

Warmth—she could sense the warmth surrounding her mother’s hand, the chill of her own fingers as Scythia drew from her. And Gors—she could sense him, too. Odd. Most times she could not feel beyond the physical contact with her mother. Oh, Mothers, pain: it knifed at her; frantically, she tried to pull her thought away. But it was fading, already fading. The room blurred around her as Scythia dragged ruthlessly at her remaining strength. The boy sagged between them. Ylia felt herself toppling over the edge of a black pit and cried out. Hands caught at her shoulders, bit into muscle, dragged her back to the moment.

‘M—mother?’ Her vision was blurred. Mothers, I nearly followed him into death! Her mother’s face swam before her; tears ran, unheeded, down both faces.

‘Gone. I—there was nothing we could have done. We tried.’ She shook herself, willed her daughter a burst of strength. ‘No, I follow your thought—even if Nisana and my own father had been to my aid, he would have died.’ I am sorry, beloved, she added aloud as Brandt wrapped her fingers around a warmed wine cup. He was beyond my reach.

I—it’s all right. He blinked tears away. Ylia.

Father? Up. She was exhausted beyond bearing, but she had trained her body hard; it knew how to go on when the mind denied she could. One of the King’s housemen steadied her, gave her wine. She sipped gratefully, dispelling the chill that still shrouded her thought.

Go, finish your packing. The Narrans wait only for you and your ladies.

I—yes. All right. She cast an unhappy glance at the still form on the fur, his face mercifully covered over, strode from the Reception, oblivious to the still-staring nobility who parted to let her through.

Scythia ran a tired hand across her brow. She is still displeased, isn’t she?

Yes. Brandt’s arm tightened around her shoulders as she stood. But she swore she would leave.

Well, then. Scythia shook her head. Something’s wrong. But then, everything is, just now.

If you would leave with her?

No, Brandt. We agreed not to speak of that further. I do not leave you, not in this life. Nor in any that may follow.

Brandt sighed, but let it rest. Impossible to argue with his AEldra wife when the matter was so important to her as this. And, in truth, he knew he felt exactly the same.

The child is a good child, for one human: brave like her father and as skilled, I swear by the One, as her mother, though she chooses as stubbornly as one of my kind to disbelieve. Half-blood! I, Nisana, am among the great wielders of the AEldra power, though my own blood has been cut more times than I can count. The Power is, that is all. And so she will learn.

The last boat sailed at dusk, oars splashing softly to guide it into the current. A triangular orange sail was hoisted awkwardly and the long pleasure craft, floating low in the water with its unaccustomed cargo, gathered speed and was gone. The Merman had left a long time since.

Ylia watched the River from a deserted upper chamber, a small black and orange cat against her arm. Nisana: Queen Scythia’s cat. But also AEldra, and so more than simply cat.

I will keep my promise. Ylia spoke softly, though the rooms had been deserted for nearly a hundred years; not even servants came to this particular tower, and most of them were hours since fled down-River, anyway.

‘Hah. You promised to board the Narran ship and seek safety in Yls,’ the cat’s tart reply filled her mind, continued an argument started over an hour before when Nisana, alerted to the girl’s presence, had come in search of her.

I did not, most carefully, Ylia retorted. Father named me heir, I accepted that as I must. Because Beredan gainsaid it by his death, five years ago. She swallowed; her brother’s death had been so stupid! Useless, foolish and stupid! And it still hurt, even after so long a time. I promised to use full safeguards. But I made no promise to remain on that ship! She stared out the window. "You did not go, cat," she added pointedly.

‘Because your mother did not,’ Nisana replied. ‘I do not leave Scythia ever, unless I must. I have not, since her mother commended her to me at her birth. I intend at the last to lead her from the City by the tunnel.’ Her head moved against pliant fingers. ‘Two would be better at that. If your father dies,’ she added, with a cat’s blunt lack of tact, ‘she will not wish to leave.’ Ylia closed her eyes, swallowed dread. ‘I must go to learn what I can of the defenses,’ Nisana added, ‘and to see what aid I can give. Stay here.’ She dropped lightly to the floor. ‘Unlikely, with all that passes at present, Scythia will be aware of your presence.’

No. I remained to aid also. And I will not hide behind what I have done; I am not ashamed of it.

‘So be it.’ Despite the fact that she was irritated with the girl, Nisana was moved to a grudging admiration: unlike most humans, to take responsibility for their often foolish, emotionally bound actions. ‘But stay a while. Lest they still find a way to send you hence. Wait, I will return.’

All right, cat. Ylia turned back to stare into the night. My less than worthless Power. Nisana could have saved Gors, she and Mother together. And I—she suppressed the thought. Faintly, she sensed the cat’s presence fading down-hall. One such as Scythia would have been able to follow her all the way to the Reception.

Nisana returned some time later and accompanied her to the kitchen for a cold evening meal, and for biscuit, dried meat and fruit to fill a travel bag. As the girl ate, Nisana told her what she had learned. ‘Plans are not yet complete and depend largely upon the barbarians. Scythia and I will create a seeming upon the walls, so that it appears we have more armed there than exist. Other than that—’

Then I can be of some aid, perhaps. A little. Ylia swung the bag to her shoulder. The Council Room, cat.

‘No! If you—’

Yes. I remained to aid. I cannot aid, unless they know I am here.

Nisana glowered at her, finally turned away and padded back toward the main halls.

A silence greeted the heir to the throne’s entrance. She stood in the doorway, braced for the recriminations, the anger which must follow. Silence. Her mother laughed then.

"I told you, husband, I sensed something."

Brandt shook his head, bent to hide a smile under his moustaches. Mmmm. Had there been less to worry this afternoon, I might have caught you out in your choice of words, girl! You boarded, eh? And then left at once, no doubt?

Ylia flushed, shrugged. Well—not quite at once. She grinned as she caught the smile that passed between her father and mother. I had to wait a little, until the Narrans were away from the plank.

Scythia laughed again, drew her into the room and to the empty chair at her side. She and Brandt both ignored the unhappy looks from the others around the table; Ylia was too nervous to see them. All right, child. You’ve made your point and cut your escape. And I can use you tomorrow.

"Nisana told me. You plan a seeming of bowmen."

We’ll keep most of our bowmen within the City, upon the outer parapets, Brandt said. Most of the City’s strength, swordsmen, landers, horsemen, go with me, to set upon the Tehlatt in full force. Since they know that we by habit send only a portion of our armed out at a time, they may think us a greater army, and turn away.

But, of bowmen— Ylia considered briefly. We haven’t enough to man a third of the outer wall, even with the Southern and Eastern holders to aid. She was more aware of the remainder of the men in the Council Chamber, now; flushed as she caught suddenly approving looks. The girl wasn’t merely a spoiled creature; she was Brandt’s child and had learned from him.

No, said Scythia. "Most will be seeming. Between us, you and I can create and hold such a vision, daughter, and Nisana will reinforce the vision with her own strengths as need requires." Can we, indeed, Ylia thought sourly, thrust the thought hastily aside as her mother caught it and frowned at her.

If they can fight— one of the captains began hesitantly, but Scythia shook her head. "No. That we cannot do: the Powers granted the AEldra by the Guardians are for healing and peace, for personal protection only. If phantoms could fight, one with evil intent might use such forces to gain hold over a folk. A host of seeming bowmen there can be—one to take arms and defend Koderra, that there cannot."

It may, as the King says, be sufficient. The captain didn’t look wholly convinced, though.

Levren leads the bowmen, and with him Marhan will stand, since he no longer sits horse with comfort, Brandt finished. They will bring what men they can through the northern tunnel to the River if it becomes clear they can do nothing on the walls save die.

Ylia laughed. Death, at the moment, was a distant and unreal thing. Marhan will not like being surrounded with phantom soldiery.

Her father laughed with her. No, poor Marhan, he does not.

Nor do any sensible folk. Familiar, hated voice. Ylia rose to her feet, all laughter gone, shook off her mother’s restraining hand. She turned away, too, the warning thought that sought to touch her: ‘Do not anger him, we need his strengths, daughter!’

Vess. Hated, horrible cousin! ‘Need Vess, Mother? Why not bring also some of the green marsh-snakes and have done?’

Brandt’s sister Nala’s mystery son, the King’s bastard nephew—there! Half a room away from her, he lounged at the foot of the table. Still too near. "Perhaps you have a better suggestion, sweet cousin. I’m certain we cannot wait to hear it."

He flushed at that. Almost immediately, though, he was once again the smooth, languid darling of Teshmor’s ladies, but the light brown eyes that met hers were pale furies.

For years, since she’d been old enough to realize how Vess treated women, particularly those of rank greater than his, Ylia had loathed him. Seducer. That was the polite word for it. For his part, Vess disliked her openly and intensely. That a female be handed Nedao’s throne! And a female half-witch, to boot! He had, after Brandt named her heir, attempted her death on several occasions, hoping thereafter to press Brandt into granting him a higher position in the succession. One could always, he reasoned, try.

Deep down, he found her attractive, sword, plaits and all. The certainty that she’d have rebuffed any of his skilled overtures had only intensified his already strong hatred.

"I was not aware you had skill in battle strategy, sweet cousin." It was Ylia’s turn to flush. Her mother’s hand became even more insistent.

The equal of yours, she replied sharply, and if that is little, at least it is not buried under many years worth of lechery and wine.

Vess leapt to his feet. I’ve had enough of you, girl.

Not as much as I’ve had of you, womanizer!

Perhaps you’d care to settle matters—right now!

Try me! Her sword was halfway from its sheath; Vess’ dagger gleamed in the ruddy light. Those around the table eyed the two nervously.

Vess! Ylia! Brandt shouted. Instant silence. There is enemy enough to fight, without you killing each other. Lord Vess, you have learned all we have to say here. You are welcome to remain in Koderra, though I fear I cannot offer you safety.

If I had wished safety, Sire, I would have sailed for Yls. Vess inclined his head respectfully. The dagger vanished back into its hidden arm sheath.

There are still one or two small boats remaining in the harbors, nothing truly safe in open sea, but a chance against a certainty. There are the mountain passes. Or, if neither of those options appeal to you, sister’s son, return to Teshmor. Another, colder silence. Ylia ventured a thought in her mother’s direction as she sheathed her sword and dropped back into her chair. ‘Father’s furious with him! What went on before I came?’

‘Vess suggested a venture to attract the attention of the Sea-Raiders to aid us against the Tehlatt—hold your seat, girl! Your father has forbidden you to fight him, and I will not have him further upset!’

She subsided, unwillingly, but her hands itched. To smash that pale, smug, self-satisfied face—just once! Sea-Raiders! They’d swallow Koderra whole, given the chance! Nedao’s ancient enemy at Nedao’s side? How many kinds of fool was he? Or was it yet another of his endless plans for gaining Brandt’s throne?

Vess bowed even lower. My King. His voice was low, expressionless. Teshmor is my sworn City, true. But Gors’ tale, as the Lady told it, his tone of voice could not, really, have carried any suggestion that the Queen had lied, leads me to believe a return journey to Corlin’s walls would be my death. I need time to decide. If I do not go to Teshmor, if I could be permitted to join the bowmen?

Marhan will like that, Ylia muttered; Vess shot her a telling glance but risked no further comment.

Your choice, sister’s son, Brandt replied. Vess cast the King’s heir one last, black look and strode from the chamber.

There was little else to discuss. The Southern Lords left moments later; Ylia, at her father’s insistence, went back to her chambers to find what sleep she could against the next day’s need.

But few slept that night, and many stood as she did, peering northward through the overcast, where the reflections of the burnings could be seen as a ruddy glow against thick clouds, and later still as small flame points scattered across the Plain. By dawn, they were less than a league from the City.

I have lived long years, even as humans count them. But in all of them, there was never a worse day than that one, and it is still hard for me to tell of it. I had lost before—no one lives for 70 or more years and does not. Mother, brother—many others. I have never before or since lost as I did that day. It is seldom I envy humans anything that is theirs. When I think of my Scythia, I envy them tears.

2

Sunrise. Ylia stood at the outer gates as equerry to the King. Queen Scythia was already upon the inner parapet, staring across grey crenulated stone, the AEldra cloaking of Power playing rainbows across her white robes and pale hair.

Brandt gripped his daughter’s shoulders, his eyes warm and proud, but fear rode high in his thought, so strong even she could sense its direction. She spoke impulsively: If—if there is need, I will lead mother to safety. I know the tunnel, the lands about the River for many leagues. I will keep her safe, Father, I swear it.

I know you will. And some of the fear went from his face as they clasped hands. Take care, daughter and heir.

And you, my father. He pulled her close; she was hard put not to cling to him and weep, but then he was gone, mounted and riding from the gates with the war banner of Nedao at his right hand, his housemen about him and several hundred foot and mounted armsmen following.

For the space of several pained breaths, she stood where he left her. Only when she regained control of tears did she dare climb to join her mother. She was embarrassed, half-sick, and her purpose in remaining seemed, suddenly, childish. But Scythia’s smile was warm as she turned, and she held out her hands.

Nisana will aid us from within the Tower. Join, daughter. Ylia smiled back, at least partly reassured, reached with her weak inner strengths, her strong sword hand.

Her eye was caught by movement on the near hills, and she stared in horror as a force of Tehlatta horsemen rode toward the gates, outnumbering the Nedao army by at least five to one. There would be no victory here, there could not be. Only the purchase of time for those who had fled, and hope of a swift death for those who remained. Her fingers dug into the stone sill as the first of the barbarian horsemen spilled into the City foreguard, and battle was joined.

Her mother’s mind-touch dragged her sharply back to the moment. ‘Join!’ A rain of arrows flew from the walls, driving back those who had pressed toward the gates. A hundred or more bowmen stood there, some on the inner walls, some on the outer. Even with effort, she could not tell which were real, which illusion, though she knew full well how few trained bowmen Koderra had.

The sun rose ever higher, and still the City forces, embattled as they were, held, though little of the fighting could be seen from the walls for the dust churned up by men and horses. But now and again the wind would clear a space, or another would open as the Tehlatt force moved on, leaving dead and dying behind.

Midday: hot for early spring and dry. The seeming held. The King’s forces held, though there were fewer than had ridden forth.

Ylia cried out and tore from her mother’s grasp, as a sudden wind from the Torth blew the battlefield clear, and with nightmare clarity she saw the ground before the gates. The war banner flopped wildly, sagged to the ground, its pole cut in half, the bearer limp across his terrified horse. Brandt shouted once, stood in his stirrups with his sword raised high; he went down immediately under the attack of a dozen Tehlatta axemen.

She could not move, could not remember how to breath. Could only stare, dry-eyed, as the wind faltered and dust obscured the battlefield once again. Could not answer the mental demand that was Nisana: ‘Scythia? Ylia! What chances without? Scythia?!?’ But the Queen was gone.

Gone? Great Mothers, no! Ylia gazed frantically about, leaned precariously across harsh stone, her breath coming in anguished little gasps. Light flared across her vision—oh, Mothers, gods and Mothers, no—

Scythia stood directly above the outer gates, the Power flaring blindingly with the rage and pain of her loss. The bowmen, only seven in number as the seeming faded and was forever gone, drew back in sudden fear, shielding their eyes. A hollow boom shook the City: they were bringing rams to attack the gates. The few who defended before the walls were ringed on all sides, though someone had rescued the King’s torn and broken standard and set it in their midst.

A voice rose high and terrible above the sound of battle and silence fell as defender and foe alike turned toward the gates. For Scythia had cried a blood-curse in the AEldra tongue, and the sun was briefly darkened as the Baelfyr blazed from her hands to strike down those below. She cried out once more then, and a horror of blue-white flame bloomed around her as she toppled slowly from the walls. A third of those who sought to breach the gates died when she fell, the rest fled.

‘Ylia? Ylia! There is nothing you can do, come now!’ Nisana’s sharp command dragged the stunned girl from the wall. ‘Your oath, remember it!’ It was the right choice: dagger-oath to her father and her people held her now; horror-sick and weeping, she tore herself away and pelted back into the Tower.

‘The tunnel, girl! No, not as you are, you’ll die the first night! Your pack, my bag—your cloak! Must I think for you?’ Silence, save for Ylia’s choked weeping. The cat rubbed against her leg. ‘Weep later; save yourself and me first!’

‘I—’ with a terrible effort, Ylia caught at her breath, caught at the wall, hard. Pain—blood flowed from scraped fingertips, but it gave her back a little control. She scrubbed a sleeve across her eyes. ‘All right, I’m all right. The food pack—my rooms. Go.’ Her face was white, eyes huge and dark, and her teeth had left blood on her lower lip, but she was, momentarily at least, in command of herself again. Nisana cast her a worried glance, padded off downhall.

Food. The cat’s travel pouch in which she rode on long journeys—don’t think of who always carried it before, it’s yours now!—a heavy cloak, the warmest she owned. One last look at the airy, familiar rooms then, before she turned to leave. A faint, furtive sound brought her sharply back around, dagger at the ready. ‘Where—and what?’ No answer; Nisana was already scouting down the hall.

She moved quietly across the room, stopped at the entrance to her dressing room. Stared, blankly. Whatever she had expected, it was not this. Malaeth? Her nurse, her mother’s nurse before that, knelt within the cupboard, tugging vainly at another—Lisabetha; Mothers, no. Why is she here? And why are you, old woman? Fear, surprise made her voice rough, overloud in the hushed Tower.

Malaeth recoiled in terror, gasped, then swung about in a pale-faced fury. Did you think me so weak as to desert your mother? she snapped. And yourself, Lady Ylia? You were to be gone as well, I think, Lady Princess! Nisana, her whole furry body a taut demand for haste, padded back up-hall. As for this child, Malaeth continued, "I thought her gone. She was to have gone. She is in shock."

Lisabetha huddled in her corner, nearly hidden by hanging robes, eyes open but unseeing. Young for