Kedryn frowned, dull dread fastening clammy hands upon his soul. “How should he obtain them?” he asked slowly. “Wynett would not relinquish hers to the mad god.”

  “Not knowingly,” Gerat agreed, “but remember that Ashar is the god of lies."

  “And,” Kedryn said softly, his voice dulling as the fire of his hope diminished, “you cannot be sure Wynett lives.”

  “Touch your own stone,” Gerat commanded, “and tell me what you feel.”

  Kedryn raised a leaden arm to fasten a hand about the blue jewel, clutching it within his fist. It tingled against his palm, seeming to vibrate slightly with a strange, crystalline life. He closed his eyes, then opened them as certainty filled him and he said, not knowing how he knew, “Wynett lives!”

  Gerat smiled. “When you stood on the walls of High Fort with Grania to dispel the gramarye of the Messenger Wynett was with you. Grania recognized what none of us in the Sisterhood then knew: that your destiny was linked to Wynett. That joining created a union deeper than may be easily explained, a union enhanced by the wearing of the talismans. While Wynett lives, her talisman and yours—the two halves of the one original stone—are attuned, and you will always know she lives; as she will know you live. The Lady gives you hope, Kedryn!” “Aye.” He relinquished his hold on the jewel, his lips curving in a wan smile. “There is hope. And I must go into the netherworld to save my love.”

  “To save your love and the Kingdoms, too,” said Gerat. “But to do that you must be well. Those ribs must mend, and to that end you must sleep. What you may face there will be far worse than any Horde; worse, even, than the Messenger. Ashar will doubtless seek to suborn Wynett.”

  “She is no flighty girl to be bought with deceits,” Kedryn protested.

  “No,” said Gerat, “but she will likely find herself in a world where nothing is as it seems, and Ashar is a master of deception. He may seek to win the talisman through treachery rather than force, and Wynett is alone there.”

  “I go after her,” he declared, his voice fierce now.

  “And that may be what Ashar wants,” Gerat warned. “It may be that he seeks to entrap you both—to win both talismans.”

  “He must kill me first,” said Kedryn, “and to do that must he not overcome the power of the talisman?”

  Gerat nodded and Kedryn asked, “And you believe the talisman is the means by which he may be slain?”

  Again the Paramount Sister nodded.

  “Then, for both Wynett and the Kingdoms, I must go there.”

  “If that is your choice,” Gerat said, “but it is a mightily hazardous venture you plan.”

  “No matter.” Kedryn’s mouth set in a firm line. “He has already wreaked sufficient harm; now let him pay.” The thought prompted another and he asked, “The others? Tepshen and Brannoc; Ashrivelle; Galen—do they live?”

  “They do,” Gerat assured him, “and like you need to recover. Now, sleep.”

  Kedryn began to shake his head, but she placed a hand upon his face, her fingers touching gently on his eyelids so that they came down to enclose him again in darkness, though now the blackness that descended was beneficial, without panic, and he slipped easily into dreamless slumber.

  Gerat sat a while beside him, murmuring softly, her voice musical as if she sang a lullaby, which in a way she did, for soon his breathing was deep and regular and she could sense the healing processes commencing in his battered body. She sat like that for long moments, then rose to silently close the shutters, dimming the sunlight so that the simple, white-walled room became a place of restful shadows.

  With no more sound than a cat might make, the Paramount Sister crossed to the door and went out, closing the portal behind her before turning to the two men waiting in the chamber outside.

  “He sleeps,” she told them. “His ribs mend, but he needs to sleep.”

  Tepshen Lahl nodded, his luteous features grave. Beside him Brannoc wound a finger about a feathered braid and asked, “How long?”

  “He will be healed within the week,” said Gerat. “In the time it takes your arm to mend.”

  “And Wynett?” asked Tepshen.

  “I believe she lives,” Gerat murmured, “for I do not think it was the beast’s purpose to slay her.”

  Briefly, she recounted the gist of her conversation with Kedryn. Tepshen glanced at Brannoc and said, “He had spoken with us of his notion of descending a second time into the underworld and I told him he was unwise. Now there will be no stopping him.”

  Brannoc smiled grimly, glancing down at the limb strapped across his chest. “The Lady be praised for your healing talents, Sister. We shall need foil use of our swordarms where we go.”

  “You would go with him into that place?” Gerat looked from one sober-faced man to the other. They nodded. “It will not be easy,” she warned. “Kedryn wears the talisman and that is greater protection than any device I can provide for you.”

  “No matter.” Tepshen’s voice was flat, stem with resolve. “Where he goes, I go.”

  “We,” Brannoc amended.

  “So be it.” Gerat smiled approval of their loyalty. “I shall protect you as best I can. But we shall speak of this later; for now, I must tend the others.”

  “How fares Galen?” Tepshen asked.

  “Several ribs were broken and the muscles of his shoulder badly torn,” Gerat informed him, “he must remain here until the next full moon at least.”

  The kyo nodded and said, “I must send a message to Andurel.”

  “Wait,” Gerat advised. “When Kedryn wakes again there will be much we must discuss. Leave the message until then.”

  Tepshen thought for a moment, then ducked his head in agreement.

  “And now go rest yourselves,” said Gerat, firmly. “You are neither of you fully recovered.”

  The two warriors nodded and turned to follow her into the sunlight of a little courtyard, Tepshen limping, Brannoc holding his damaged arm protectively. She left them there, crossing the plaza to a door on the far side through which she disappeared. They settled on a stone bench mounted against the wall beneath the window of Kedryn’s chamber, their movements unusually cautious, for both were severely bruised. The sun was lowering toward the west, angling golden light into the court, and the sky an unsullied blue. The flowers that grew within the yard filled the air with pleasant scents, their brilliant colors vivid against the white of the walls and the pale sandstone of the flags. It was warm, spring fading into summer, the scene suggestive of two men lazing out the end of the day, an impression belied by the tension writ clear on both their faces.

  “You do not have to do this,” Tepshen said quietly.

  Brannoc glanced at the kyo, his swarthy features quizzical. “Do I not?” he asked, sounding almost—but not quite— amused.

  Tepshen turned from his contemplation of the flowers to fix the half-breed with a jet stare. For long moments he studied the former wolf’s-head, then smiled briefly. “Thank you.”

  “I have,” Brannoc paused, seeking the right word, “a regard for Kedryn. And for you. I would not see either of you risk that place alone when I might aid you.”

  “No,” said Tepshen, and then both lapsed into silence.

  When next Kedryn woke he judged it to be morning from the angle of the sunlight entering his room and the odors of hot bread that drifted on the warm air. His stomach prodded his memory and he eased upright in the bed, wincing as the movement strained his healing ribs. He felt refreshed, as though he had slept a long time, and glanced around the chamber. It was small and plain, its resemblance to the room he had occupied in High Fort’s hospital awaking painful memories of Wynett so that he experienced a rush of impatience and pushed back the sheets, preparatory to rising. Bandages swathed his midriff and a sharp pain lanced his side as he set bare feet to the floor, seeing his clothes folded neatly on a small chest across the room, his sheathed sword resting atop the bundle. He stood up and felt his head swim as if he had been too long abed, placing a hand against the wall as dizziness threatened to topple him. Then the door opened and a familiar voice said, “Kedryn, I have brought you . . . Oh!”

  The sentence cut short on a gasp of embarrassment and he settled back on the bed, tugging the sheets across his naked body as he turned to see Ashrivelle standing just inside the chamber, a cloth-covered tray balanced on her outthrust arms.

  “Forgive me,” she stuttered, “I did not... I thought...”

  “No matter,” he forced a smile, easing his legs onto the bed and drawing the sheet up. “Come in.”

  Wynett’s sister came forward, her pale face pinked with discomposure, and set the tray on the small table beside his couch. She wore a gown of Estrevan blue and her hair was gathered in a simple coif. She reminded him of Wynett and he felt the smile freeze on his face.

  “There is bread,” she said, speaking fast in nervous response to her embarrassment, “and eggs. Butter. A tisane.”

  “How long have I slept?” he asked.

  Ashrivelle looked at him with troubled blue eyes. “Two days. I was afraid you would die.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I have too much to do.”

  “I have spoken with Gerat.” Ashrivelle settled herself on the single chair. “She told me what you plan.”

  Kedryn reached for the tray, grunting as he twisted so that Ashrivelle was instantly on her feet, bringing the platter to him, settling it solicitously across his thighs. As she stooped her hair brushed his face and he caught its fresh scent: another reminder of Wynett.

  “Is it wise?” she asked as he spread butter on new-baked bread.

  “What else should I do?” he retorted, the sharpness of his response bringing a flush to her pretty features again so that he modified his tone as he added, “I’m sorry, Ashrivelle, but whilst there is the slightest chance I may save Wynett I have no other choice. Would have no other.”

  “You love her very much,” she said softly, staring at him in a way that prompted some small degree of discomfort.

  “Aye,” he said, “I do.”

  “But you are also king now,” she said slowly, still staring at him.

  “And Ashar is still the enemy of the Kingdoms,” he answered, “and he has taken my wife.”

  Ashrivelle nodded, her expression forlorn. “But should the Kingdoms lose both queen and king ...”

  “They have not!” he snapped fiercely. “Wynett lives.” Ashrivelle started back, her eyes widening at the ferocity of his response. She composed herself with obvious difficulty, forming tears glistening on the blue of her gaze as she swallowed, seeming to steel herself to speak again.

  “Gerat believes that—and I pray that she is right—but what if she is not?”

  "Gerat is Paramount Sister of Estrevan,” Kedryn said, refusing to entertain any doubt, “and I feel Wynett, here.”

  He clutched the talisman, comforted by the faint tingling it imparted, the warmth he felt radiating from the stone.

  Again Ashrivelle nodded, but now a hand crept forward to touch his. “I would not lose you both,” she whispered. “I saw the beast and felt its power. I would not see you, too, lost to Ashar. ”

  Kedryn let go the talisman to fold his hand comfortingly about hers. “Would you have me abandon Wynett?” he demanded.

  “No!” Ashrivelle gasped, both her hands clutching his now. “Not that! But nor could I bear to lose you, too.”

  The face she turned toward him was reminiscent of the adoring expression he had seen during his coronation celebrations and gently he extricated his hands from her grasp, busying them with bread. “I shall not be lost,” he said. “The talisman will protect me and I shall bring Wynett from the netherworld. And you are bound for Estrevan, are you not?”

  Abashed, Ashrivelle lowered her eyes. “Aye. Gerat says I may accompany her when she returns.”

  “I am pleased for you,” he said.

  “But,” she began, then shook her head. “No ... I shall not journey to Estrevan until I know you are safe returned.”

  Her tone alarmed him and he said, “You can as easily await our return in Estrevan as here, Ashrivelle.”

  “Gerat travels to High Fort,” was her answer. “She will wait there until you return ... Or not.”

  “Once these ribs are full-mended I travel fast,” he said. “On horseback I can take the river trail north. You could not keep up.”

  “Then we shall follow after.” There was a trace of defiance in her voice. “Gerat came here by carriage and we shall take that north.”

  Kedryn shrugged and forked egg into his mouth. “As you wish.”

  “Not quite,” she murmured, almost too low for him to hear.

  Then, abruptly, she rose to her feet. “I shall leave you now. Forgive my . . . weakness.”

  Before he could voice a response she was gone, closing the door behind her so that he was left alone with his confusion. And his hunger, he realized as he swallowed egg, and began to consume the breakfast with relish.

  He was sipping the last dregs of tisane when the door opened again and Gerat entered, carrying a small satchel of blue leather and accompanied by Tepshen and Brannoc. The kyo’s limp was gone and Brannoc’s arm was no longer in a sling, though he held it cradled still. Gerat took the chair and the two warriors settled upon the bed.

  “How do you feel?” asked the Paramount Sister.

  “Rested,” Kedryn answered. “Though my ribs feel a trifle sore.”

  “And will for some days yet,” Gerat nodded, casually removing the bed clothes that she might prod at his damaged side. Kedryn winced as her hands moved over his bandages, but she appeared pleased with her findings for she nodded and said, “Aye, they heal nicely. You’ll be fit enough to sit a horse ere long.”

  “And these two?” Kedryn gestured at his companions.

  “Mending apace,” Gerat said.

  “You’ll have companions on the journey,” grinned Brannoc. “To High Fort,” Kedryn nodded.

  “Into the Beltrevan,” Brannoc corrected. “And beyond.”

  Kedryn began to shake his head, but Tepshen fixed him with a solemn look and said, “We are sworn to ward you. We go with you.”

  “There are charms and cantrips fashioned for their protection,” Gerat told him as he started to protest, “and their minds are made up. I think it no bad thing you travel with such boon companions.”

  “Besides,” said Brannoc, “you are not so well-acquainted with the Beltrevan that you may find Drul’s Mound unaided. And as I have told you, the Drott may not take kindly to grave robbers.”

  “Grave robbers?” Kedryn frowned. "Do we go to rob graves?”

  Gerat brought the satchel to her knees and fetched parchment out, smoothing the vellum across her knees, her expression serious.

  “I have the writings I spoke of, and I have discussed them with Tepshen and Brannoc. Listen.” She began to read: “And l saw that what he had fashioned for his deathly purpose was his undoing, for that which he had fashioned he had imbued with his own strength, that death himself might be slain, should life and death be joined.”

  “This is the Sister you spoke of?” Kedryn asked. “Qualle— was that not her name? What does it mean? I do not understand.”

  “Nor,” said Gerat, “did I, until I read the passage to Brannoc.”

  She turned to the half-breed, who unconsciously shaped the three-fingered gesture of warding as he cleared his throat and fixed his dark eyes on Kedryn’s face.

  “There is a legend amongst the Drott,” he said slowly, “that says when Drul raised the first Horde Ashar gave him a sword.”

  “Niloc Yarrum’s blade was ensorcelled,” Kedryn interrupted, the confusion in his eyes replaced with interest. “I felt it when I fought him.”

  Brannoc nodded. “Likely by Taws. The legend has it that Drul’s blade was fashioned by the god himself.”

  “What he had fashioned for his deathly purpose,” Gerat read, “imbued with his own strength.”

  “And Drul’s sword is said to rest with his bones in the mound,” Brannoc added.

  “His undoing,” Gerat quoted, “for that which he had fashioned he had imbued with his own strength, that death himself might be slain, should life and death be joined.”

  “I am no wiser,” Kedryn murmured, perplexed.

  “The sword is death—Ashar’s tool,” Gerat said, “and the talisman you wear is life. I believe the jointure of the two may fashion the means of Ashar’s downfall.”

  Kedryn stared at her, a strange calm in his brown eyes. “You say I must go to Drul’s Mound and join sword with talisman?” “I believe that to be the way of it,” Gerat confirmed, “if you are to save Wynett. I do not say you must.”

  “Will the shamans agree?” he wondered, as if the Sister’s final sentence had not registered. “Will even Cord help in such a venture?”

  “Likely not,” said Brannoc. "Hence our grave robbery.”

  “We dig up a rusted sword?” Kedryn demanded. “How, after, do I enter the netherworld.”

  “We,” Tepshen corrected. “You shall not dissuade Brannoc and me from accompanying you.”

  “We,” Kedryn allowed, “but my question stands.”

  Gerat turned again to the parchment. “And I saw he who was raised up go down into the earth where dwell the worms of corruption, and yet they could not overcome him for his purpose was high and I saw the love of his fellows sustained him that he be not forgotten, nor those he loved.” She looked up, her eyes intense as they fastened on Kedryn’s. “I believe Qualle foresaw this and has shown you the way. I believe that if you enter Drul’s Mound again, whether through the agency of the woodsfolks’ shamans or through your own enterprise, the way beneath will open to you.”

  “And Drul’s sword—joined with the talisman—may slay Ashar?”

  Kedryn’s voice was harsh with urgency now, his eyes burning with purpose.

  “Aye,” said Gerat, “I believe that is the meaning.”

  Kedryn nodded thoughtfully. “But if the Drott refuse help how may we obtain the sword? How may we enter the tomb?” Gerat looked again to Brannoc, who grinned, a trifle nervously, Kedryn thought, and said, “Until the summer Gathering the Drott will be scattered throughout the northern reaches of the forest. None will come near the mound before the time of the Gathering, so we have time enough to find the place and start digging.”