Her hands were clasped in front of her, and many rings of unique design graced her long, slender fingers. She wore a necklace of chunky crystals in a dozen different shades of purple and violet. On her head was a bizarre headdress. It was made from something that looked like old, dark bones that had been plucked from a fire. There was a complexity of arcs and curves, some that folded back in on themselves and others that curved upward and out to end in sharp spikes. In the center were two tiny carved skulls, and though each was fleshless, Kagen somehow knew that one was a man’s skull and the other a woman’s. This woman’s, he thought, though there was something not quite right about that.

  Her face was incredibly beautiful but also as cool and distant as the moon—no lines except for a faintness of creases around her mouth and the corners of her eyes. It was, perhaps a glamour—to use Tuke’s word—a falsity that hid truth. Her bearing was regal beyond that of any monarch he had ever met, and he’d served Empress Gessalyn and met every one of the subordinate monarchs in the empire. This woman was so completely queenly that she transcended even that lofty description.

  And her eyes …

  Kagen had never seen eyes like hers. The color was the only ordinary thing about them—an icy blue nearly as pale as his own. But everything else about them was strange. They were ancient eyes in a face that looked so very young, and he knew that the eyes were a surer window to the soul than anything else. There was a crackling intelligence there and a deep, deep knowing so profound that it exposed the lie of youth that her face tried to sell. There was some anger there—a small flicker of heat—and also curiosity, amusement, and sadness. So damn much sadness, as if her magic mirror showed her all the sorrow in the world.

  Kagen tried again to fight free of the tapestry, but the thing retaliated by squeezing him until it tore a cry from his lips.

  “Stop fighting it,” said the woman.

  “Keep back, witch!” he snarled. But the tapestry squeezed harder still, forcing all the air from his lungs. He lay there, completely helpless, unable to breathe. Stars swirled around him and he could feel his bones squeak close to the breaking point. He could not even use one of his knives because there was no room at all. Thick as it was, the cloth clung to him like leaves, pressing in with terrible force on every square inch of his body.

  The woman stood watching him.

  “You cannot escape it,” she said. “No mortal can. If you continue to fight, all you will accomplish is your own destruction.”

  But Kagen kept fighting.

  And fighting.

  Until he had no breath left and the world was nothing but stars exploding in darkness.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN

  When her meal was done, Filia went for a walk. She turned Dog over to a stable lad and had Horse at her heels. Townsfolk crossed to the other side of the street as they approached. It was unclear whether this was because of the size of the dog or the look in her eyes, but Filia was fine with it.

  Mother Frey had asked her to study a map of Arras before setting out on this errand, but Filia did not need it. The silvery spike of the Tower of Sarsis rose above even the tallest building in town. Even in full darkness she could see it, the opalescent facade reflecting lights from the surrounding homes as clearly as a polished mirror.

  It was an imposing structure, and easily the tallest tower Filia had ever seen. Perhaps as tall as those on Skyria, though all of them had fallen ages ago and lay in weed-choked segments among the comprehensive ruins of that ancient place. Filia knew this tower was rumored to be as old as those, but it looked as if it had been built yesterday.

  She and Horse stopped at a corner across the empty square from the tower. They stood in dense shadows, looking for any sign of Kagen or Tuke. Everything looked still, so she decided to walk around the tower. On the seaward side, far from where anyone in town could see, Filia saw the rope hanging down from the empty sentry walkway.

  “Ah,” she murmured.

  Horse suddenly tensed and uttered a low growl, and Filia spun fast as lightning, her sword scraping from the sheath.

  “Whoa, whoa!” cried a voice in a frightened whisper.

  Filia peered through the gloom. “Tuke? By the gods, is that you, you big ugly bastard?”

  “I’m not a bastard,” he said as he stepped out from behind a shrub. “The rest is an open question. And by the gods of the briny deep, how the hell are you here, Filia? And is that Horse? Come here, boy, and give us a kiss.”

  Filia nudged Horse with her toe and the dog bounded forward and nearly knocked Tuke off the cliff and into the ocean. The transformation from lethal guardian to overgrown puppy was instantaneous. Tuke knelt and endured the licks and slobber as he rubbed the animal’s side with his fingers.

  “I came looking for you,” said Filia, crouching in front of him.

  “Why?”

  Filia glanced around and then said, “Mother Frey sent me.”

  Tuke grunted. “Really? Since when are you working with her?”

  “Long story,” said Filia. “Where’s Kagen?”

  Tuke paused, then ticked his head toward the tower. “Up there.”

  “He went in alone? What the hell, Tuke? Why aren’t you with him?”

  He explained about his injuries, including the damage to one hand from foolishly trying to swat an arrow out of the air.

  “Gods of the Pit,” said Filia. “Are all men that stupid?”

  “Apparently so,” said Tuke.

  They stood and walked over to the tower.

  “How long has he been in there?”

  “Couple of hours,” said Tuke. “Went up and in without a hitch. Used nightflower on the sentry. But I haven’t heard from him since. I’ve been pacing back and forth and, hand or not, I was about to try the climb to see what happened to the son of a bitch.”

  “Might be a good idea.”

  Tuke glanced at her. “Why would Mother Frey send you?”

  “Partly to find out how this is coming along,” Filia said, jerking a thumb up at the top of the tower.

  “Call it a work in progress,” said Tuke, “though I don’t actually know if Kagen is making progress or if he fell through the floor and is lying dead somewhere.”

  “You’re cheery.”

  “Or,” said Tuke, “maybe he found the sorceress or faerie lady or whatever the hell is in there and has since been turned into a frog.”

  “Kagen the Frog,” said Filia. “That would be interesting.”

  “But unhelpful.”

  “How bad is your hand?”

  “Mostly healed,” said Tuke, “but I have some cuts here and there. One bad one in my thigh. It’s stitched but…”

  “Well, hell, son,” said Filia. “I guess we’re both glad I showed up, ’cause the other reason the old bat sent me is that she’s been reading up on the legend of the Tower of Sarsis. She realized that sending a man might have been exactly the wrong plan.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Because a bunch of the old legends say that there actually is a faerie lady in there, and a really damned powerful one. Or maybe the right word is hungry.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  And Filia explained.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHTEEN

  Kagen woke in chains.

  He lay on a daybed, his weapons gone, along with his boots, gloves, jerkin, and belt. Cuffs were cinched around his wrists and ankles and a sturdy chain connected them to a ring set in the floor by the divan.

  The room was the same one where he had fallen victim to the enchanted tapestry, but he was now alone. Almost. A small white dog sat on a tufted footrest, head on its front paws, watching him with brown eyes. The cats were scattered around practicing their indifference.

  Kagen ignored the animals and concentrated on the manacles. Tuke had taught him tricks to escape them—though Kagen knew some things from Jheklan and Faulker, who delighted in escaping shackles or locked rooms. They should have become thieves, he mused. But it was no use. His lock picks were in little slits sewn onto his belt, and that belt was missing.

  Then he spotted it. His clothes and gear were on a chair near the loom, which was all the way across the room. There was a little slack on the chains, but not nearly enough.

  The chains were well made but not very thick, and he wondered if brute strength could tear them free of the ringbolt, or perhaps snap a single link. He shifted around until he faced the wall behind the sofa. Kagen took hold of the chain, braced his feet against the wall, took a deep breath, and then threw all of his weight, muscle, rage, and need into it. He pulled and pulled, feeling his muscles swell. Every ounce of him was locked into one titanic effort as sweat burst from his pores. The world seemed to be awash with red, and still he pulled. Black poppies bloomed before his eyes, and still he pulled. His hands burned and his muscles were in agony, and still he pulled.

  “Come on, you thrice-damned son of a poxed—”

  “Hush,” spoke the same female voice. “Not you or ten with you could break that chain. Not a hundred men with horses could do this thing.”

  “Be damned to you,” he wheezed, and fresh terror of that sorcerous woman put new fire into his limbs. He threw his weight against the chain over and over.

  “Oh, it is far too late for that, Kagen Vale,” said the woman. “My fate was sealed before the towers of Argentium were built.”

  Kagen stopped struggling and lay panting in defeat.

  She walked around to stand in front of him. While he slept, the woman had changed clothes and now wore a thin gown of a rich blue that clung to her curves. A belt of woven leather circled her waist, and from it was supported a silver dagger in a jeweled sheath. The skirts of her gown and that long black hair moved subtly, as if stirred by a breeze, but there was no breeze in that room. There were no windows, and Kagen felt sure that whatever blew past her came from somewhere else, some place of magic.

  “Kagen Vale,” she said, “you are a fool to have entered my tower.”

  “Who are you?” he asked warily. “This is the Tower of Sarsis … is that who you are? Are you a descendant of Lady Sarsis?”

  “Sarsis?” One eyebrow lifted. “Is that what you were told?”

  “I was told there was some ancient crone down here,” Kagen said.

  “Do I look ancient?” she asked, laughing softly and raising her arms out to her sides. She was beautifully made and the gown flowed like running water over her limbs. He guessed her at about thirty, though she could be as old as forty. Or twenty. It was difficult to tell, and the golden candlelight softened everything.

  “No,” he said frankly. “You are no old crone. But that doesn’t tell me who you are. Yet you seem somehow to know my name already.”

  She smiled faintly. “I have had so many names in so many places,” she said, almost to herself. “Nimue and Maev, Morgan of the faeries and Rhiannon of the Gray Circle, Circe and doomed Erodiade, Oonagh and Gloriana, Titania and Aradia, Calypso and Tanaquill. All were my names, and many more besides, and none my true name, for a true name must be kept secret. Oh yes, very secret, else someone with the skill can conjure with it.” She paused, and it seemed to take a moment for her thoughts to return to her prisoner. “What name did I wear when I came to this place? It is so long ago that I cannot easily recall it. Ah … wait … yes. I was Maralina then, and you may call me by that name.”

  “None of that made sense, woman,” said Kagen, giving the chains another rough jerk, with equally fruitless results. “What is happening here? What have you drugged me with that makes me dream thus?”

  “Drugged?” she echoed. “I have not drugged you. Though you used some potion on my sentry—was it nightflower?—and left him trussed like a goose ready for the oven.”

  “Release me,” demanded Kagen.

  “Perhaps I will,” Maralina said, and came a few steps closer. She was almost within reach, and Kagen shifted one foot back and put weight on it, ready to propel himself at her. If she was aware of her danger, it did not show in her face or voice. “First, you will tell me why you have come here. Tell me why you scaled my wall, attacked my guard, and entered unbidden into my home. Tell me these things and be true, or I will leave you chained on that couch and will daily watch you starve and waste away. Do not think I make a hollow threat, Kagen Vale, for I have done this many times, and with warriors every bit your equal if not your master.”

  “How do you know who I am?” he demanded in a voice more confident than he felt.

  Maralina gestured to the large mirror that hung on a wall above an ornate loom. The mirror’s face was dark and covered with a thin veil woven from a hundred shades of blue and white, as if it had been spun from threads of moonlight.

  “I heard about that mirror,” said Kagen. “And the loom. It can’t be true what they say, though.”

  “What do they say?”

  “That you see the world beyond this tower in the mirror and then weave what you see into tapestries,” he said. “But that you are forbidden to go out into the world lest some curse strikes you down.”

  She studied him for a moment, and he thought she was going to cry, but instead she turned away and walked over to the mirror and idly touched the veil.

  “The stories people tell,” she said with weary disgust. “It is only ever a splinter of the truth, but never the whole truth.” She paused and sighed. “But … true enough for now, I suppose.”

  “It’s not a very good mirror,” he said, mostly because he’d already felt like he’d lost the thread of this conversation.

  “And yet,” said the lady, “I can see very clearly in it. And very far.”

  He turned. “Are you a witch?”

  “No,” she laughed. “I am not a witch.”

  “Then, what?”

  “I am what I am,” she said. She was silent for a moment and when she spoke again there was such a deep and profound sadness in her voice that it struck Kagen to the heart. “There is no one else like me.”

  “Where are your people?” he asked.

  “Gone,” she said. “They are all gone.”

  “Did the Hakkians kill them?”

  “The Hakkians?” She looked surprised. “Kill them? No … oh no, Kagen. They have gone far away. They stepped through a veil and closed it behind them, and—alas—they took their magic and their songs with them.”

  “Is that supposed to make some kind of sense?” asked Kagen.

  “It makes whatever sense it makes.”

  “You speak in riddles,” he said unkindly. “Maybe you should stop living in a tower and get some fresh air. It’s like a tomb in here.”

  “A tomb … yes,” she said vaguely. Then she laughed. “Perhaps I like the quiet.”

  Maralina walked past him and touched the threads of the loom, and Kagen shifted a bit to see the pattern on which she had been laboring. It was a strange piece, more highly detailed than he would have thought possible on a simple loom.

  And his mouth went dry as dust. His heart slammed against the walls of his chest.

  The image was that of a dragon, the old kind from children’s faerie stories, though the composition was in no way childish. The dragon was upright, but not rearing in preparation of exhaling a fiery breath. No. This dragon hung from a stone wall, its massive limbs manacled and chained and its body crisscrossed by countless wounds.

  It was the dragon in chains from his own boyhood dreams.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINETEEN

  Kagen stared in shock and horror at the dragon on the woman’s loom. His mind felt like it was falling one way and his body another. The room swirled drunkenly around him and he was not at all sure if he was awake or still in the thrall of hallucination. Or magic.

  The dragon.

  Gods of the Pit, it was his dragon. Torn from his dreams. A thick band of gleaming metal encircled the great beast’s snout, trapping those massive jaws shut. The vast wings were spread wide, but they had been pinioned to the wall, held fast by spikes. And all of the dragon’s claws were gone, leaving only raw and festering sockets in the pads of its feet. It was a dreadfully sad image and was made worse by the look of desperation and pleading this sorceress had managed to imply with the subtleties of her colored threads.

  “No…,” he breathed.

  He turned to see Maralina watching him.

  “You must think that I have gone mad with melancholy,” she said. “Trapped in this tower, spending eternity weaving sad tapestries.”

  Kagen’s hands darted to the handles of his daggers—which, of course, were not there. The chains rattled their rebuke.

  “Who are you?” he asked again.

  “I am sadness and sight,” Maralina said.

  “Very poetic,” said Kagen. “But what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means whatever you want it to mean, Kagen Vale.”

  “No, gods damn it,” he growled. “Speak plainly. This is all tearing my mind apart. How do you know my name? How do you know my dreams? Speak plainly. Who and what are you? Is this hell? Is this the fate of the damned to be trapped in a place of madness?”

  For a single moment he saw the lights in her eyes change. Even the color appeared to shift, becoming green and then taking on more of a catlike yellow. It was there and gone, and in that flash her features seemed more sharply cut, and her straight, white teeth took on a peculiar sharpness. And then the strangeness—or perhaps the illusion—was gone. Had it been a shifting of the candlelight? Had his own struggling body cast a shadow over her that created the falsity of that change? Or had he glimpsed something? A true face behind a mask. Kagen did not know and he did not like the icy hand that now seemed to be closed around his heart.

  “I could kill you,” said Maralina, “with but a word.”

  Kagen straightened as best he could with the restraints. “I’m shackled,” he replied. “Of course you could kill me. So what? My death would be no loss to this world. At best it would be the punch line to a weak joke. No one will weep for me, and those who knew me would be glad to see me turn to blood and dust.”