Rellen looked back at the stone doors, a deeply troubled look on his face. They hadn’t been meant to keep something out… they’d kept something in, and now the way was clear.

  What have I done?

  “Damn it,” he growled. More than anything, he wanted to confront that little bastard Thorfyll.

  “What’s wrong?” Miranda asked.

  “We have to get out of here,” he said, stepping away from the portal. “Something may be coming through that thing,” he added with a growing sense of panic. “We have to notify the king immediately.” He tugged on her arm and started walking away. “Hurry…”

  The two of them limped and staggered—as quickly as they were able—through the long, dark hallway, helping each other along. They finally reached the dome where Mygal lay.

  “Mygal,” Rellen called out as they stepped into the dome. “We’re back.”

  There was no reply.

  “Mygal?” Rellen called out again, fear clutching at his insides. He scanned the interior of the dome as he drew a falchion, although he wasn’t in much shape to get into another fight. He quickened his pace and gasped when his eyes focused on Mygal’s body.

  “Gods, no…” Rellen’s heart broke.

  Mygal lay there, his sightless eyes staring up at the open sky, with the dagger they’d pulled out of his side now sticking up from the center of his chest.

  Rellen ground his teeth. His knuckles went white. A spark of impotent rage ignited in his breast, fueled by the terrible sadness that clawed at his emotions. He’d lost so much today, and once again proven he couldn’t be responsible for others. He would kill Tavyn—butcher him—when they finally crossed paths. And he would draw it out for as long and painfully as he could. He’d make Tavyn wish the Nissran’s had gotten hold of him.

  “The bastard just murdered him,” Miranda said, her voice full of fury.

  A shock of fear slammed into Rellen.

  “Xilly!” he cried out, dreading he’d lost her too. Ignoring the pain, he limped as fast as he could out of the dome and through the barrier that hid Stukelladios. Miranda followed, keeping pace, as he rushed to the back of the wagon.

  Everything looked just as it had when they’d left it. He slowly pulled the canvass back, dreading what he’d find. He exposed her dark body, curled up into a ball.

  Rellen? The weak thought slipped into his mind, and she lifted her head slowly.

  “You’re alive,” Rellen whispered, running a hand gently across her body. I thought I’d lost you too.

  Too?

  Mygal is dead… so is Jaquinn.

  I’m sorry, Xilly said. It carried with it sadness, but also confusion.

  And Tavyn is the one who killed Mygal.

  What?

  I’ll explain everything later.

  Rellen looked around the far side of the wagon. Shaddeth, as well as Miranda and Mygal’s mounts were still tied up with the others.

  “Tavyn’s mount is gone,” he said, turning to Miranda.

  “So, what do we do now? Chase him?”

  That was exactly what Rellen wanted to do, but Tavyn couldn’t be his priority—yet.

  “First, I notify the king of everything that’s happened,” Rellen said. “Then, we bury our dead. We’re beat to the breaking point. The king has lost two Guardians this day. And we’re in no shape to track Tavyn down.” He locked eyes with her. “The whole of Pelinon may be on the verge of coming apart, and whatever that thing down there is for—whatever might come through it—can’t be good.”

  “So, back to Kaichakahn?” she asked, pulling several kara roots out of her saddlebags.

  “I’m debating that.” He remembered what Toreth had said aboard the ship: Even Duke kyp’Tukeem and his family are mine. Rellen knew they had to get out of Kaichakahn… out of the Duchy of Nikostohr—and as quickly as possible. Either they took the King’s Highway up through the Duchy of Nikostohr, or they tried to book passage on the next ship bound for Yaylo. If they moved quickly and kept themselves hidden, it might be possible.

  “Kaichakahn,” he said firmly. “We disguise ourselves and get on a ship.”

  He looked to the east where the port lay, and then an idea slid into his thoughts. They’d lost two Guardians today. He glanced at Miranda, a thoughtful look on his face. He wouldn’t have to be responsible for her, because she was as capable as he was—maybe even more so. Working together, they might just have a chance.

  “What?” she asked.

  He had an offer to make her… he just hoped his brother would go for it.

  Epilogue

  The Spider’s Web

  Abissar guided his grypharri, Glimmerwing, out of a clear night sky. The limitless black cradled a quarter moon set amidst a wash of stars that filled the heavens to overflowing. Abissar had an appointment to keep.

  He let out a deeply satisfied sigh and patted her neck. In his estimation, Glimmerwing had made him the most influential clikurioi in the history of the Readers. The animal was his one conceit to station, influence, and affluence. The Corsairs had several flights of the beasts. The king, of course, had six in his own stable, and there were several nobles with the means and mettle to be grypharri riders. None of them, not even the king, used theirs to such profound effect.

  Capable of carrying a fully armed and armored warrior, the feathered, four-legged creatures had massive wingspans; large, bird-like heads; and long plumage running back from their throats. They ate whatever they could get down their necks, although they preferred fresh meat. Their limbs were rough and scaly like a large bird of prey, but thick like a lion’s, ending in long, sharp talons. They also had long, sinuous tails covered with rigid feathers that they used as both rudders and for forward momentum once they were aloft.

  He’d ridden her to nearly every corner of Pelinon and beyond for twenty years, in pursuit of his weavings, and until only recently, she’d been his greatest asset.

  Patting her once more with affection, he aimed for the bright bonfire set to guide him in. The lights of Svennival spread out a mile to the south and several hundred feet below him. The dark mass of the lake filled the horizon, and he could just make out the lights of several ships cutting their way across the water.

  The air had been frigid on the journey south from Daemonostra Keep, but his fur-lined flying suit and rider’s helm had made the long journey bearable, if not comfortable. And he did so enjoy the stars as seen from Glimmerwing’s saddle, a thousand feet above the ground. That perspective had always been a perfect reflection of his own designs… with the world flowing under his watchful eye and deliberate control.

  Glimmerwing descended swiftly and with exhilarating speed. At the last moment, she spread her mighty wings and braked hard with a fierce flapping. She came down onto a rut-filled, dirt road at a gallop. Abissar reflexively shifted back and forth in the saddle, absorbing the impact with the skill of a Corsair. He tugged lightly on the bridle and guided her down an overgrown cart path toward a bonfire next to an old, abandoned farmhouse.

  Releasing the straps that secured him to the saddle, Abissar urged Glimmerwing through an old gate that had fallen to ruin. He pulled up a short distance from the bonfire where Tavyn, the young informant that had played such a pivotal role in Abissar’s primary weaving, stood waiting.

  Unbidden, the gossamer threads of Fate drifted before Abissar’s eyes. Some were almost too pale to see, while others were as bright as the glowing moon above. Young Tavyn had been a nexus for Abissar’s designs for months now, and as a result, dozens of threads, almost like strands of a spider’s web, intersected with Tavyn’s heart.

  Abissar focused on them for just a moment. Each one was unique, and he’d learned to differentiate those imperceptible variations from an early age. One of them connected Tavyn to Rellen. Another connected him to Miranda, and another, the most obvious, connected Tavyn to the Black Wyrm Clan and Rickavyn Dennilish. The brightest thread of them all, of course, connected the informant to the heart of the bonfire.

  Since Abissar could remember, he’d seen the threads of his mistress, Fate. She’d chosen him from the cradle. Unlike most people, whose majea manifested with puberty, his had manifested when he was barely out of the womb, and he could see the threads of Fate like none other. He’d studied the histories of every great Reader over their fifteen-hundred-year history, and none of them could see what he could—what he always had been able to see. For Abissar, the threads of Fate were the master weaving of the world, and he could pluck on those threads like a spider in its web. They were always there for him, everywhere, and he’d learned from childhood how to pull and push and weave them into his own designs… He could even create them. And now, staring down at Tavyn Daggerayne, it was time to pull on another strand.

  “I’ve never seen a grypharri up close before,” Tavyn said as he took several tentative steps closer to the grypharri. The young man seemed cautious but unafraid of a beast that could rend him apart in an instant, if Abissar willed it.

  “Magnificent creatures, aren’t they?” Abissar asked in a friendly tone as he climbed out of the saddle. He grabbed a heavy leather sack that clicked and jingled. It was Tavyn’s payment for a job well done.

  “Truly,” Tavyn replied, taking several steps closer.

  The young man was much the same as when Abissar had engaged his services: slender and twenty-ish, although his blond hair was now cut short, and his trim goatee had become a full but closely cut beard. He still had keen eyes that missed little… but just enough.

  “Have you brought what I asked for?” Abissar’s eyes flicked to the leather satchel over Tavyn’s shoulder, with whatever lay within pulling down hard, as if it were made of stone or metal.

  “I have,” Tavyn replied. “Is that my payment?” His eyes shifted to the heavy sack in Abissar’s hand. A hungry smile spread across his face.

  Abissar held it out without answering.

  “I meant to ask you, why did you have me kill Mygal? I rather liked him.” Tavyn pulled the satchel off his shoulder, and they quickly exchanged their hard-earned prizes.

  “Because I am in a position to influence the selection of his replacement, and I now find it advantageous to do so.” Abissar gave him a slim smile. “I believe that concludes our arrangement, yes?”

  Tavyn shrugged amicably. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” He opened the sack and peered inside. It was full of golden dakkaris and an assortment of glittering gemstones. He nodded, satisfied with his payment, and met Abissar’s gaze. “Let me know when you need me again,” Tavyn offered before turning toward his horse. He held up his wrist exposing the slim band of dark metal. The leafy vine pattern glittered in the firelight, and the simple onyx stone flashed brightly. “You know how to reach me.”

  Abissar took a moment to open the satchel. Within lay the plunnokum, and now that he’d laid eyes upon it, countless gossamer threads of potential appeared, all of them coalescing at the center of that potent green circle of metal. It was real. He’d worried Tavyn might have the temerity to present a fake, but the young informant had been true to his word.

  He let out an almost disappointed sigh. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  Tavyn turned, a confused look upon his face as Abissar’s eyes followed a gossamer thread running from Tavyn to the back corner of the farmhouse.

  Abissar felt Tavyn’s ermajea slide over his mind and then slip into it. Abissar didn’t even try to hide his thoughts. Tavyn’s eyes went wide in surprised anger, but it was too late.

  Abissar raised a hand and casually pointed at Tavyn as the young man reached for his blade.

  “Why—” Tavyn started, anger filling his voice.

  A crossbow bolt shot out of the darkness and transected Tavyn’s neck.

  The young informant staggered, gurgling as he clutched at the bolt. Blood poured from his neck.

  Abissar stepped forward slowly, dispassionately. He drew a slim dagger.

  Tavyn clumsily clutched at the hilt of his rapier, panic and pain filling his face, but Abissar lunged and drove his dagger up to the hilt into the center of Tavyn’s chest, piercing his heart.

  Tavyn coughed up a splash of blood, shook his head weakly in disbelief, and crumpled to the ground.

  A burly figure with no neck to speak of stepped out from behind the empty farmhouse as Abissar bent over and rolled up Tavyn’s sleeve. He carefully removed the dark bracelet he’d given Tavyn and peered at the onyx stone gleaming in the firelight. He made the bracelet disappear into his robes. He would keep this useful little seed of his will until he found new soil in which to plant it.

  He leaned over even further, peering down into Tavyn’s lifeless eyes, still frozen in terror. “I’m afraid you knew too much,” he whispered, patting the satchel, “and there are countless more just like you who don’t.”

  As he rose, he slipped the satchel over his shoulder, making sure the heavy flap was closed. He turned toward the neckless man walking slowly toward him. Rickavyn Dennilish held the heavy crossbow that had ended Tavyn’s journey.

  “Place the body in the fire,” Abissar said. “That sack on the ground should more than cover your fee.”

  Rickavyn picked up the sack, peered inside, and his eyebrows raised.

  “Think I may just celebrate tonight,” he replied, cinching it up and tying it off.

  Abissar strode to Glimmerwing and climbed deftly into the saddle. Out of habit, he peered closely at the many threads that flowed into Rickavyn’s heart. Not unexpectedly, most were completely unknown to him, and the one connecting him to Tavyn was fading quickly.

  “I still don’t know your name,” Rickavyn said, dragging Tavyn’s body toward the fire.

  “And you never will,” Abissar replied. “But you may yet see me again.” He traced through the gossamer threads, and as he examined them, he froze. He focused on one that was more than familiar to him. It connected Rickavyn to Talliah Essoch, of all people. The line was faint, barely noticeable, but Abissar was more familiar with her thread than any other. “In fact,” he added, giving Rickavyn a most friendly smile, “I’m certain of it. A man of your talents is certain to be of assistance to me soon. Very soon.”

  “You know how to find me,” Rickavyn said, hefting Tavyn’s body unceremoniously into the bonfire.

  “Indeed, I do,” Abissar said as he pulled on Glimmerwing’s reins and guided her back out onto the rough road. He ran a finger over the bracelet hidden in his robes. It was one of thirty pieces of jewelry he’d had commissioned by a master jeweler in Corsia. Each stone set into a bracelet, necklace, pendant, or ring had a matching one safely locked away in his study. He’d come to call them his Seeds of Dominion, and through them, his grand design might come to fruition far sooner than he could have ever imagined, just as Fate willed.

  He’d planted this particular seed in the fertile soil of Tavyn Daggerayne’s avarice, and as a result, he’d been able to harvest nothing less than a plunnokum of the Giants. It wasn’t a plunnoi, to be sure, but this ancient relic might just lead him to one. And a plunnoi would be the key to his greatest weaving yet. A Reader who held a plunnoi, and knew how to use it, would hold the reins of an entire world in the palm of his hand… Abissar’s hand.

  The threads were coming together exactly as planned.

  As Glimmerwing lifted him off the ground, he couldn’t help but reflect on the one, pivotal event that had set everything in motion, and he thanked Fate for that fool Darjhen, whose panic had made it all possible.

  Interlude

  Five months earlier…

  “Fools,” Abissar growled, his mind still tingling from the summons of the Aurora. “All of them… dotards and fools.” A glowstone illuminated his descent deeper into the bowels of Daemonostra Keep… and further from the Fakimiar Stones. His irritation grew with each step. Locked securely away in his study, thirty matched pairs of ancient, profoundly magical gems beckoned. They were the key to achieving all his designs. Through them, what would have taken him decades would only take years, but he needed to bond with them, first.

  Wyrd curse that wretched Aurora! It had taken him away from his studies… from the stones. He cursed the inconvenience. He cursed the Hand of Fate Conclave. He cursed whichever one of its thrice-cursed, mewling Readers had invoked the Aurora.

  Had it been any other summons, he would have ignored it and made an excuse later—even to High Master Talliah. However, there was no turning away from this particular summons without suffering consequences. Once invoked, the Aurora—a magical pulse that spanned all five continents—resonated in the minds of all ten members of the Hand of Fate Conclave, no matter where they were. Under normal circumstances, the council met only once on the cusp of each New Year, but the Aurora brought them running like a fire brigade and generally carried with it a promise of revelation or disaster for the Conclave and beyond.

  All he wanted to do was return to his study, to the stones, and to the destiny that Wyrd—the goddess of Fate—had seen fit to bestow upon him. The stones had come into his hands alone, and if ever there was a better signal that Wyrd desired Abissar to one day rule the Hand of Fate, he couldn’t conceive of it. He soothed his irritation with thoughts of Fakimiar. He sent up quiet thanks and a hint of regret for the erstwhile adventurer and archaeologist who had given his life—albeit unwillingly—so Abissar would be the only soul alive who knew of the stones’ existence.

  Once again, the stones filled his thoughts.

  He blew out a frustrated breath and shook his head, trying to clear his mind of everything but the task before him. He was about to face the most potent clikurioi in all the world—and the greatest threat to his designs. In order to continue manipulating them, there was no room for mistakes. As always, his performance needed to be perfection.

  He reached the bottom of the stone steps, worn by fifteen hundred years of Reader sandals, and moved down a short passage with equally ancient wooden doors on either side. They—like everything else in Daemonostra—were meticulously maintained. The dark iron bands didn’t have a spot of rust, and the reddish grain of the stakka wood had a polished sheet that reflected the light of his glowstone. He opened the last one on the left with only the faintest groan of well-oiled hinges and entered what every Reader in the keep—save two—believed was merely another storeroom. Dust lay upon crates and barrels stacked in the corners. The floor, however, was clean, swept by Reader acolytes tasked with the daily duty of ensuring it stayed that way.