He crossed the room and uttered an ancient incantation known by only by the High Master and himself. The wall before him swung away with a faint grating of stone and squeal of metal, exposing a long, dark hallway of immense proportions. The ceiling rose above him nearly eighteen feet, and the hallway was twelve feet wide.

  Muttering an expletive, he stepped into the darkened passage and spoke the incantation again. As the door closed behind him, he strode forward, his footsteps echoing off stonework far older than the keep he’d left behind. A pale, luminescent glow filled the far end of the passage a hundred yards distant, terminating in a wall that swirled and glowed with patterns of light and color.

  The thuros, he thought. That too will one day be mine.

  He kept his pace brisk but didn’t hurry. Hurrying was beneath him, even if it was Talliah Essoch and the entire Hand of Fate who waited.

  He passed several massive intersections along the hallway, each one leading into musty, dark regions of an ancient, underground fortress that he’d never taken time to explore. There hadn’t been cause. Such knowledge had no place in his designs… yet. Soon though—sooner, perhaps, then he’d ever thought possible—that would change.

  At the far end of the passage, the pale glow of the thuros filled a large, stone chamber where a lone figure stood in the dark green robes of Daemanon’s wing of the Reader Order—Talliah Essoch.

  Abissar swore again, silently this time, and made his way to where she waited, standing off to the side before the ancient glowing surface of the thuros. He felt her cool, hard eyes upon him. She might say something about his tardiness, she might not. It was always difficult to tell with the High Master, for her eyes were always cold and calculating. He often wondered if she’d been born with those eyes, and one day he hoped Wyrd would permit him the privilege of gouging them out.

  Talliah Essoch, at over a century old, had led Daemanon’s Reader order for more than sixty years. She was the epitome of strength and vitality, seemingly eternal. Short, alabaster hair rose above her head like a crown of flame. Her body, neither thick nor thin, could have been sculpted by a master, with every muscle and curve distinct beneath her robes. She towered over most, with a propensity for looking down her sharp, angular nose at them. There was a natural haughtiness to the woman, wrapped in a cold demeanor that Abissar surmised was born of noble breeding, although he’d never been able to prove it.

  He hated her most of all.

  She carried herself with resilient strength, every move and gesture as deliberate and precise as clockwork. Such precision was reflected in her words as well. She wasted nothing, with an obsession for logic above all things—even in others. Passionless, she viewed everything within her purview as little more than a knot to be untied, a puzzle solved. And she condemned any who injected emotion into any conundrum before her, large or small.

  To Abissar, she was… a fool. The entire council was made of fools, but he did not let this assessment show—they would never know until it was precisely too late. For now, he would play the part, be the subservient pupil to Talliah’s grand, stoic, ego.

  As he neared the High Master, the kairoi—the gossamer threads of Fate—drifted unbidden before his eyes, with Talliah as their nexus. They were as pale as spiderweb in moonlight, and he recognized dozens of the kairoi that were connected to specific people. He quickly identified that of young King Saren III and Abissar’s own prize pupil, Saleeria Beskovar. He picked out several members of the Order and even the king’s older brother, the wastrel Rellen. There were others, but those glowed the brightest.

  He closed his eyes and pushed his majea away. There was no place for such things with Talliah or the Hand of Fate. They would sense any sort of manipulation, and as much as he wanted to pluck those threads, weave them further into his designs, the danger was far too high…

  As Abissar approached, he drew in a deep breath, let it out, and straightened his robes. He would play his role… and continue using his words, rather than his majea, to shape her perception.

  “High Master,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “Do you know why the Aurora has been invoked?”

  “No,” Talliah replied, the tips of her white hair seemingly ablaze in the pale glow of the thuros. She looked down upon him, her face devoid of emotion. “I expected you to be here sooner, Vice Master.”

  “My apologies,” he replied, abasing himself. He forced himself not to clench his teeth. “I was engrossed in research when the call came.” It had the merit of being the truth. If she asked him what that research was, however, he would lie. “You know how it can be, High Master.”

  “Have you uncovered anything noteworthy?” Her eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch.

  “Not yet,” he said, which was only partly truth. “I’ve only just begun. It might be nothing at all. Rest assured, should I feel it worth your attention, you will most certainly be made aware.”

  “Very well.” She turned away from him. “Let us find out why we have been summoned, yes?”

  “Yes, High Master,” Abissar said, turning his eyes to the pale, luminescent swirl of color before them. The thuros—nearly the same dimensions as the passage behind him—was an ancient portal, a remnant of millenniums-old magic left over from a time before humanity and the other races made the world their own.

  Talliah reached into the folds of her robe and extracted a large, black coin of sorts, with a singular engraving upon both sides. It was a plunnos, one of five keys in existence that allowed passage through a thuros. Each High Master possessed one, and each plunnos was different.

  In all the world, mere dozens knew there were other continents, and of those, nearly all were Readers. It was the Order’s second most closely guarded secret, behind the truth that the Giants of myth had been real, and that they had once ruled all five continents.

  She touched plunnos to thuros. There was no visible reaction, but Abissar knew from experience the way had been opened.

  “Come,” Talliah said, and she stepped forward. The surface didn’t ripple. The shifting patterns of color and light didn’t change their course. Her form simply passed through its surface, as if she’d stepped through a mirror and disappeared.

  Abissar stepped forward. After more than fifteen years of passing through, he still marveled at the experience. The surface of the thuros gave way, slipping around him, soaking through him. There was no sensation, more a palpable absence of it, and yet, when he completed that step, he found himself in a very different place, one where the air was thick with moisture and heavy with the scent of the sea.

  The room, built on the same scale as the thuros, was pentagonal, with a thuros set in the middle of each ancient, stone wall. Above each door was a dark, metal emblem several feet across, and each one bore the same motif as on the plunnos that opened the thuros beneath it: an open scroll for Shijuren, Drakanon’s golden dragon, the burning keep of Pyranon, Noksonon’s sun and consuming shadow, and Daemanon’s horned demon skull. Massive stone doors filled the corners, although what lay beyond was a mystery to Abissar. Only the High Masters were permitted access. Was it one of the five continents that lay beyond? For all Abissar knew, an island or entirely new continent lay beyond those doors.

  One day, I will solve that mystery too, he thought.

  Six robed figures stood around a large stone table with three concentric circles carved in its center. They clustered in pairs, with each pair wearing the color designated for their continent: blue for Shijuren, gold for Drakanon, and red for Pyranon. Talliah and Abissar wore their own, deep green.

  “Did one of you invoke the Aurora?” Talliah asked as she took her position at the table. Abissar took his position on her right, and half a step behind.

  “If not you,” Veikko of Haapavesa said quietly, “then it must have been Lengstrom.” The short, portly man was the High Master of Shijuren. Calm, quiet, and reserved, he spoke only when it was necessary. His eyes were intelligent, his demeanor almost as stoic as Talliah’s. He was also, arguably, one of the most dangerous Readers to Abissar’s designs. Ever did Abissar feel Veikko’s eyes upon him, evaluating, calculating. Veikko watched, and that was the one thing Abissar didn’t want.

  “Lengstrom, then,” Talliah replied. “So we wait.”

  Several heads around the table nodded. Although the silence was deafening—there were no comrades at this table—they didn’t have to endure it for very long.

  A dozen heartbeats later, two figures in the black robes of Noksonon stepped through their thuros, hoods pulled over their heads. Abissar recognized the woman’s form immediately: Vice Master Elegathe Ventine—the newest addition to the Hand of Fate. Even fully cloaked and cowled, he recognized the sway of her walk. She’d stood beside High Master Lengstrom at the Conclave only once before, at the annual gathering.

  He turned his eyes to High Master Lengstrom—and froze. He fought to keep his face emotionless. The man hidden beneath that hood wasn’t Lengstrom. The High Master that Abissar knew, was slightly taller, his frame smoother and less angular. This fellow stood strong and tall, but there was a sense of age about him that didn’t quite fit.

  What’s going on here? Abissar thought. The newcomer seemed oddly familiar, but he couldn’t figure out why.

  “Lengstrom,” Jekka, the High Master of Pyranon said, focusing her attention on the cloaked Elegathe. “Why have you called us?”

  Abissar’s eyes flicked to the striking woman in red robes. At a glance, she was a lovely young thing, with piercing eyes that bored into wherever she fixed her gaze… a predator’s eyes. Although she appeared to be no more than nineteen or twenty, she had been on the council longer than any of them. She was ancient… and insane. She was also one of Abissar’s favorites. While it was difficult to control madness, once set in motion, insanity could be counted upon to inflict mayhem. One day, Abissar fully intended to set the crazed Reader in motion as part of his grand design. He looked forward to it, in fact, for Jekka was a formidable creature, and would serve his purposes well.

  “Not Lengstrom,” Elegathe said. Abissar turned curious eyes to her as she flipped her cowl back, exposing long, dark hair framing a face no more than thirty-five years old. “I summoned you.”

  Abissar raised an eyebrow.

  Several others around the table looked surprised. She had spoken out of turn. There were several exchanged glances, and then everyone focused their attention on the lovely, dark-haired, young woman. She wore a perfect mask of confidence, her chin raised and jaw tight. Abissar knew masks better than anyone and suspected hers hid something very different underneath—youth and inexperience. He had to wonder why this mere youth was speaking for the High Master.

  “And who are you, a lowly apprentice, to summon us?” Talliah asked with steely disapproval in her voice. She firmly placed her fingertips upon the table and stared down at Elegathe as a noblewoman might examine a dirty peasant.

  Abissar again dropped his gaze from Elegathe’s face to the curve of her breasts and hips. Her robes had been cut to accentuate her ample cleavage and shapely curves. He kept his face placid and let his eyes flick over the pale décolletage Elegathe presented. As on their first meeting, he would play along with her game and find ways to use it to his advantage later, reinforcing her perception of him as a lascivious cad. He raised an eyebrow ever so slightly, to ensure she took notice.

  “Lengstrom…” Te’zla, the High Master of Drakanon blurted. “Why did you allow your apprentice to break protocol?” The man seemed shocked and appalled all at once. “She summoned us? Only a High Master can activate the Aurora.”

  Abissar kept the smile off his face.

  Te’zla was a curiosity, with all the subtlety of a yapping hound. He reacted before he spoke—prone to outbursts and a propensity for jumping to conclusions. Te’zla’s appearance fit the man, with wild gray hair sticking out every which way and gold robes that looked unkempt and ill-fitting. Abissar and Te’zla had joined the Hand of Fate at nearly the same time, and for whatever reason, the wild-looking Reader of Drakanon seemed to trust Abissar more than the others. He too would have his place in Abissar’s grand designs… as a pet, perhaps.

  “Lengstrom is dead,” Elegathe said. “I am High Master of Noksonon now.”

  “What?” Abissar blurted.

  Of all the things the young woman could have said, that surprised him. The revelation forced him to elevate his respect for her. Everyone knew she’d killed her old mentor Darjhen Torai—the High Master of Noksonon at the time—ten years earlier for using his magical power and Reader resources for his own designs. Everyone on the Conclave had approved. Rogue Readers could not be tolerated; it was a capital offense throughout the Order. At the time, Abissar had been relieved, for Darjhen was an enigma he’d not yet been able to fit into his designs.

  Because of her history, Elegathe’s sudden statement begged the question: had she murdered Lengstrom as well? Deliberately taken his place as High Master? For that matter, had she done the same to Darjhen and lied about him going rogue? The thought had never occurred to Abissar until now. If she had killed them both and orchestrated her new position, she would have to be a truly remarkable young woman indeed. His respect for her grew even more. Such ruthlessness… It made him reevaluate what her future use to him might be. The faintest of smiles crept onto his face.

  Talliah reached back and, without looking, placed a quieting hand on Abissar’s arm. His smile instantly disappeared. He kept the disgust off his face as his gaze flicked to her hand. He decided right then that he would cut off that hand when he gouged out her eyes. For now, though, he acknowledged her with a slight bow of his head.

  “It is as I feared,” Veikko, the blue-robed High Master of Shijuren, said softly. Abissar dared not look at the man for fear Veikko might see through Abissar’s seemingly calm façade.

  “I told you!” Te’zla waved his arms almost frantically, looking like a frightened child as his wild, white mane quivered and shook. “The Giants killed him.”

  “Calm yourself,” Talliah commanded, as if she were speaking to a sob-wracked wet-nurse. She stared at Te’zla, and contempt filled her eyes. “It’s far too soon to draw conclusions.” She turned all of her attention back to Elegathe… as did Jekka.

  Jekka, her eyes narrowed to menacing, angry slits, jabbed two long-nailed fingers at the still hooded figure as if they were a weapon as deadly as her daggers. “This is your new apprentice?” she asked Elegathe.

  Abissar watched Elegathe take a breath, as if she were preparing to say something. Instead, she stepped back, and the hooded figure beside her stepped forward. As he did, a distant recollection came into focus in Abissar’s mind. Could it be? The figure beneath the cowl—the shape of his body, the width of his shoulders, how he carried himself. A suspicion grew deep within Abissar’s heart. Darjhen Torai… If it was the supposedly dead High Master, it would mean Elegathe had lied—perhaps about everything—that Darjhen was playing a very different and dangerous game, and that the conversation was about to become very lively indeed.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Darjhen said and threw back his cowl, revealing his bare scalp and piercing blue gaze.

  Abissar let a subtle, impressed smile cross his face. This new truth could change everything. Darjhen was alive, after ten years in the grave, and Abissar had no doubt that it was all by Darjhen’s design. He’d fooled them all—including Abissar—and that made him dangerous. But had he fooled Elegathe, or was she complicit?

  Jekka hissed like an angry animal. Most of the others jerked in surprise—including Talliah—all save Veikko, who hadn’t reacted at all.

  “What is that doing here?” Talliah pointed, her voice icy, threatening, like a monarch about to hand down a death warrant. Young Elegathe flinched. “That was supposed to be dead. And if it is not dead, it should be executed immediately.”

  Jekka drew a long dagger from her belt and held it at the ready, a vicious gleam in her eyes. “I can make that happen.”

  Veikko held up a hand. “Wait. Let’s hear what the oathbreaker says first.”

  “No!” Anya Scany shouted. The young woman was Te’zla’s Vice Master and normally soft-spoken, prone to deferring to her High Master in all things. She was a stern, plain-looking creature, with her straight, brown hair pulled back impossibly tight and accentuating her sharp features. To date, Abissar had found little use for her, but perhaps that was about to change. She shot a brief, accusatory glare at Elegathe, then focused her ire upon Darjhen fully. “He has forfeited the right to live much less speak.”

  “He is an oathbreaker,” Ekhi, Veikko’s Vice Master, said with iron, “but Wyrd demands that we follow Her, not our own passions.”

  “We must hear his warning,” Te’zla pronounced like a zealot from his pulpit.

  Abissar knew Talliah enough to know what she would suggest. Darjhen was a rogue Reader. He had broken the oath they all swore to uphold on pain of death. For her, there was only one answer: kill him. But Abissar sensed whatever was about to happen would hold tremendous sway over their collective futures. His mind raced, coursing over permutations of the future as he factored in this new piece of information.

  The Fakimiar Stones had just come into his possession—a pivotal moment in his designs—but he had not yet decided how best to employ them. Now, Darjhen stood before him—a second pivotal moment in as many weeks. What if Wyrd had placed both momentous events directly in Abissar’s path? Talliah could ruin all that. The very world was about to change, he could feel it, and until he knew what that meant, he was unwilling to make an irrevocable decision.