Eyrik nodded, looking mildly disappointed, and stepped casually onto the first stone. He halted at the center, waiting for her as if afraid she might falter and fall. Wynett lifted her skirts and set foot on the first slab. It was wide, almost a rectangle, and flat. She could see where it met the sand of the stream bed, yet when she transferred her weight, she felt it move beneath her. It was less a sensation of tilting than of internal movement, as if the stone itself gave way under her. The thought flashed through her mind that the experience of the weird chambers had distorted her sense of balance and she moved swiftly to the second stone. That appeared smaller than the first, though she would have sworn it was the same size when first she saw it, and she stepped hurriedly to the third. That, too, felt less solid them stone should, and as she moved on she experienced a strange sensation of shrinking, of dwindling, for the brook seemed wider, the stones more numerous, stretching before her as though they crossed not a narrow stream, but a small river, which, when she glanced down, did, indeed, appear deeper than it had at first seemed. Dizziness made her halt, arms outstretched as she fought to hold her balance, and she felt a flush of embarrassment and irritation at her weakness.

  Then Eyrik had her hand and the brook was no more than that: a rivulet, shallow and little more than a few steps across. She felt his fingers close about hers and the touch seemed to imbue her with strength, clearing her head. The stepping stones became solid again and she allowed him to lead her to the far bank, retrieving her hand as she stared back over the water. It shone silvery blue in the sun, eddies swirling about the bulk of the stones, the bottom knee-deep at best.

  “Your gown is wet.”

  Eyrik’s voice was solicitous and Wynett glanced down, seeing die hem of her skirt banded with darkness where it had fallen into the water as she struggled to maintain her balance.

  “No matter,” she murmured, “it will dry quickly enough.”

  “If you are sure?” He was all courteous concern and when she nodded and he took her elbow again she found it impossible to remove her arm from his grip. It was not that he clasped her, though there was, undoubtedly, strength in his fingers, but something in his look and the tone of his voice, as if refusal of contact would hurt and offend, that shaped her will to break the contact. It seemed, anyway, innocent enough and she allowed him to hold her lightly, taking her into the woodland.

  There was a path, a band of grass trod short, winding between overhanging trees, moving to left and right so that it was never possible to see more than a few paces ahead, sunlit and picture pretty. Light filtered through the trees to either side, falling in bands striated with blue shadows, dappling the path. Birds sang and insects buzzed and as Wynett looked about she saw a profusion of timber akin to the great forest of the Beltrevan. Oak and ash and birch grew alongside beech and larch, willows edged the stream and tall sycamores thrust toward the sky, here and there somber pines standing stately, and hawthorn, elderberry, chestnut, foxgloves, harebells, and violets growing in the shade: a bosky extravagance that paid no heed to nature’s laws. Within a few steps the stream was out of sight and within a few more Wynett felt lost. The path seemed to curve gently, but turns that should, she was certain, have brought them back upon it revealed instead fresh avenues into the wood.

  They came to a meadow bright with buttercups, cowslips, and red poppies, and she saw rabbits scutter to the cover of a bramble thicket on the farther side; she glanced at the sky, for the presence of the conies suggested a latening of the hour. The sun, however, remained high, seeming to have moved little, if at all, since she had first looked from her bedroom window. It filled the meadow with warm, golden light in which butterflies drifted on fragile wings and fat yellow- banded bees dusted heavy with pollen moved busily from flower to flower.

  “Is it not lovely?” asked Eyrik, his voice soft, as though he were afraid to spoil the perfection of the scene with intrusive sound.

  “Aye, it is,” Wynett agreed.

  He led her to the center of the meadow, their passage raising clouds of pollen that hung dusty on the still air, bees and butterflies winging from their path, and paused facing the sandy bank pocked with the entrances of burrows. There was a stillness at the center, as if the wood held his sylvan breath, and Eyrik let go her arm to pluck a flower, presenting the bloom.

  Wynett smiled a trifle doubtfully as she accepted the offering; Eyrik smiled and said, "It matches your eyes.”

  She studied the blossom and saw that it was a cornflower, though such would not normally grow in this location

  “Come.” He took her elbow again, bringing her across the meadow to the bank, up which he insisted on helping her even though it was by no means steep. Yet when they reached the top and paused again within the circle of seven pine trees she found she could look back and see the stream and the white bulk of the palace, shimmering as if viewed through heat haze and distance. In all other directions the wood stretched, unbroken save by the little meadows, the variegated shades of green becoming blue as wood and sky merged on the horizons. It seemed large as the Beltrevan.

  “How far does this extend?” she asked, thinking that she did little but ply him with questions, and knowing that there were many more to come.

  “Far,” he answered vaguely.

  “Have you not explored it?”

  He shook his head, smiling. “Not all of it. There is so much, and it will always be here.”

  She turned to look up at his face, seeing in his gold-flecked eyes a look as distant as the horizon. His head was cocked slightly to the side, as though he listened for something, attuning his ear to the breeze that would carry sound. She opened her mouth to frame a fresh question, but he caught the movement from the corner of his eye and forestalled her.

  “Look. ” She followed his extended hand and saw three hawks swoop from the blue, low over the treetops, banking and disappearing among the timber. He waited a while as if expecting the birds to reappear, but when they did not he turned, gesturing to the far incline of the ridge. “Shall we return now?”

  Wynett nodded and they descended the slope into a stand of slender, silvery birches. Before the path curved she turned back, glancing at the bank, and saw the seven pines standing like sentinels atop a mound little more than twice a man’s height. A coney emerged from a burrow, standing on its hind legs, its long ears erect, its eyes fastened on her as if it studied her with more than animal intelligence. Then the path turned into the birches and the creature was hidden, the mound and the bramble thicket and the pines all lost behind the slim trunks.

  She began to count the twists and turns, convinced that the trail wound like a maze through the wood, as inexplicable as the dimensions of the building, finding a leftward curve, or a swing to the right, where her senses told her it must recross itself, wondering how far into the timber they had penetrated, but unable to guage time because the sun appeared un moving, shining resolutely through the overlaying latticework of branches. Perhaps, she thought, no night fell on this strange place; or perhaps it fell when Eyrik decreed it should. She was about to inquire when the path straightened and she saw the willows that marked its meeting with the brook.

  They emerged at the stepping stones and Wynett frowned, convinced, for all the meanderings, that their way must have taken them some distance from the ford. She looked across the brook and saw the wall of the palace, apparently from the same vantage point.

  “May I?”

  She turned to find Eyrik offering his hand and this time took it without argument, allowing him to lead her over the stones, which remained solid.

  “It is a wondrous place,” he remarked as they reached the bank and began to walk across the lawn, “but a little confusing until you are accustomed to its nature.”

  Wynett assumed that he spoke of the wood and wondered if it was a warning she heard. “An easy place in which to lose yourself,” she replied.

  “Aye.” Eyrik nodded solemnly. “You are, of course, free to come and go as you please, but for the moment I suggest you rely on my guidance.”

  “I shall,” she said, the agreement eliciting a satisfied smile.

  There was an indefinable element in his expression and without knowing exactly what it was, or why it should have such an effect, she felt a flash of irritation. She became aware that she still held the flower he had given her and let it fell from her grasp. If Eyrik noticed he said nothing, merely continuing to smile as he took her across the grass toward the looming white wall.

  She assumed they approached the same door from which they had come, but when he swung the portal open she saw, not entirely to her surprise, and somewhat to her relief, that the chamber beyond was not that vaulted, candle-lit hall,. but another, low-ceilinged and wider than it was long. Nor was she surprised to find when he closed the door that windows marched along the wall where none had shown outside. She looked through them and saw the sun was westering—if compass points had any meaning in this place—settling close to the horizon, the woodland already shadowy, the gallerylike chamber lit with mellow, red-gold light. Plush benches stood across from the windows, as if placed to catch the sunset, interspersed with alcoves in which stood slim silver pedestals, each one supporting a vase of dark green glass filled with flowers. The floor was of tessellated marble, pink and gold that emphasized the radiance of the setting sun, and the walls seemed imbued with a coral tint.

  “It is very pretty,” Eyrik murmured absently, “but there are finer views I shall show you.”

  Wynett offered no comment and followed him silendy across the mosaic floor to a door of pink-hued wood.

  This opened on the smallest room she had seen since awakening, and the only one to possess neither windows nor any visible source of light. At first she did not realize that, for the chamber was filled with a shifting, shimmering blue luminescence that made her think of mountain pools, or the calmer reaches of the Idre, and it was only when she glanced about her that she saw the unbroken walls and noticed that no candles or flambeaux were present. Eyrik motioned her forward and she stepped onto a floor of the same aquamarine hue as the walls and the low ceiling, feeling as if she moved into breathable water, her steps somehow slowed, graceful as the languid movements of a cruising fish. It was less disconcerting than the riot of color that filled the rainbow room, but still confusing to the senses, tricking the eyes so that distance became hard to judge and she found herself at first holding her breath.

  There was no furniture, nor any form of decoration, every surface smooth. Or so it seemed until Eyrik halted, staring down, and she saw that he stood beside a circular pool of translucent water. This seemed to be the source of the chamber’s illumination for the light was brighter about its confines and when she looked at it, it seemed to hold her gaze, the flawless surface hypnotic in its liquid purity. It was impossible to judge the depth: there was no bottom visible despite the blue clarity, nor any darkening to suggest the abyss of a well.

  Eyrik grunted wordlessly, as though he saw something there that pleased him, and turned toward Wynett.

  “What do you see?”

  Her eyes were fixed on the surface; it was impossible to shift her stare and she did not turn to answer him.

  “What do you see?” he repeated, his tone a fraction more demanding, edged with an urgency she did not recognize, so intent was her concentration.

  The pool seemed to shift, though she saw no movement on its surface or in its depths, and an image took gradual shape. At first it was unclear, more an alteration in the nature of the light than any distinct form, but then it rippled, though still no movement showed physically, and she gasped as she saw Kedryn.

  He was seated on a dun horse, lathered with the effort of swift passage, galloping, his brown hair flung in streamers back from a visage planed harsh with urgency, his eyes narrowed as if in concentration, or against a wind. He wore a plain riding tunic and a sword was slung across his back, his jaw set in a determined line. She could not be certain, but it seemed two others flanked him, or pursued him, for she had the impression two other horses raced close behind. Where, on what trail, she could not tell, nor at what hour of the day they rode, but the sight filled her with surging hope, for it convinced her he lived—had survived the leviathan and the sinking of the barge both.

  “What do you see?” Eyrik demanded again, his hand clutching her shoulder, his grip tightening.

  “I see Kedryn,” she whispered. “Praise the Lady! I see Kedryn!”

  Eyrik’s hand left her shoulder and the image faded, the pool becoming once more clear water. Wynett stared at the blue-silver disk, willing the vision to return, but it did not and she turned slowly to face her host.

  “He lives,” she said slowly. “I saw him, and that must surely mean he lives.”

  A question hung on the sentence and Eyrik nodded, his lips curving in a smile. “Aye, it means he lives. What was he doing?”

  “Riding,” Wynett answered. “Galloping. I think there were two others with him. Or chasing him—I could not be sure. I could not see where they rode.”

  “Doubtless in search of you,” said Eyrik. “If he lives, will he not seek you? I should.”

  Wynett ignored the gallantry, consumed by the knowledge that her love was alive. She nodded.

  “Then,” said Eyrik, his voice calm, “we need only wait.”

  “Can you not guide him?” asked Wynett.

  Eyrik grew thoughtful, then smiled enigmatically. “Mayhap,” he murmured. “I shall do what I can.”

  “Can you show me more?” Wynett gestured at the pool.

  Eyrik shook his head, his expression becoming doleful. “The pool shows what it shows—I do not command it or control it. But now you have seen it, you may come back; and if it has anything to show you, it will.”

  Wynett cast a longing glance at the radiant circle, but no further images formed and she sighed.

  “Let us eat,” Eyrik suggested abruptly. “Eat and sleep, and mayhap on the morrow we shall see more.”

  Reluctantly, Wynett allowed him to lead her from the strange blue-lit chamber, finding herself once again in the atrium, across which Eyrik led her to a room set ready for dinner.

  Chapter Eight

  From the watchtower surmounting High Fort’s southern gate Barris Edon had a clear view of the Kingdomside approaches. The glacis running up to the massive wooden portals was surrounded on three sides by cleared ground, leveled and regularly burned on the standing orders of Chatelain Rycol, affording an open killing ground for catapults and archers should the mighty fortress ever face siegement from the south. Such was unthinkable, of course, for the land Edon surveyed was Tamur and whatever rumors had come north up the Idre since the defeat of the Horde, the soldier could not conceive of his countrymen turning on the stronghold, or allowing any hostile force access. Nonetheless, Rycol was a stern taskmaster and maintained constant vigilance on all approaches, so the lookout kept his eyes peeled, and when he saw the three dusty riders quit the town that sprawled alongside the river and urge horses obviously close to exhaustion toward the fort he shouted a warning to his captain, alerting the bowmen patrolling the wall.

  That wall loomed gray in the afternoon sun as Kedryn and his two companions pushed their lathered horses onward to the great stone redoubt. The river canyon was already darkening into twilight, the massive buttress of the western Lozins overshadowing the bastion so that only the ramparts still caught the westering light, the waterway spilling through the vast cleft a dark ribbon, secretive and, after the disaster at Geflyn, menacing. Sufficient of the settlements along the Idre road held mehdri remount stations that Kedryn, using his authority as king, had been able to command fresh horses at regular intervals as he hurried north. Even so, he pushed the animals to the limits of their strength in his desperate haste, and had Tepshen Lahl not forced him to slow their headlong pace he might have found himself walking, a dead horse behind him. He was gripped with fearful urgency, anxious to reach the Beltrevan as swiftly as possible and seek out Drubs Mound, to obtain the sword that seemed his only hope of saving Wynett, and could not think beyond that imperative, his customary thoughtfulness lost to the goad of impatience. His damaged ribs were fully healed, as were the injuries sustained by Tepshen and Brannoc, and the physical discomfort of the long ride was ignored as they pressed toward their goal.

  He allowed his weary animal to slow as the hooves clattered on the flags of the glacis and archers turned nocked bows toward him, rising in the stirrups to announce his identity and demand entrance, reining in as the sally port opened and a captain emerged, flanked by a squad of armored warriors, to study the travel-stained trio warily.

  “I am Kedryn Caitin; I want Lord Rycol.”

  He ignored protocol, leaning forward in his saddle to thrust the medallion of his office at the startled captain, who gasped, saluting, and said, “I did not recognize you, Sire.”

  “No matter.” Kedryn essayed a weary smile, heeling his mount to a walk even as the officer shouted for the gate to be opened and for a sergeant to summon Rycol.

  Kedryn rode into the shadowed courtyard and halted. Dismounting seemed less a process of swinging clear of the saddle than of ungluing himself, and when his feet touched the cobbles he swayed, his legs rubbery. He shook his head, grunting as he stretched, and passed the reins to a startled soldier, requesting the exhausted horse be rubbed down and settled in the fort’s stables, and without further delay began to walk unsteadily toward the inner buildings. Tepshen and Brannoc followed him, no less marked by their hours in the saddle, and they reached the door granting ingress to the citadel’s living quarters before the chatelain appeared. He met them as they crossed a hall, his lean features registering shock as he hurried toward them.

  “Kedryn! Sire . . . What is amiss?”

  Kedryn extended a hand that Rycol took and said, “Kedryn will suffice, Rycol. We need baths and food and fresh mounts.”