“Of course.” Rycol issued orders, studying the three with troubled eyes. “And soft beds by the look of you,”

  For a moment Kedryn contemplated pressing on without delay, but common sense prevailed and he nodded gratefully. “And beds, my friend. For one night, at least.”

  Rycol nodded and brought them across the hall to a stairway, curbing his curiosity as he led them upward to his private chambers. Within the oak-paneled room his wife, the Lady Marga, rose from her sampler, her rosy cheeks paling in concern as she saw their determined faces and the weary slump of their shoulders.

  “Kedryn, what is wrong?” She motioned the two great brin- dle hounds grumbling beside the empty hearth to silence as she came toward the trio, taking Kedryn’s hand with motherly solicitude. “We had thought you bound for Estrevan.”

  “We were.” Kedryn allowed her to lead him to a chair, easing down with a wince of discomfort, his voice bitter as he continued, “We were attacked. Wynett is taken.”

  “What?” Rycol was instantly alert, the barked question eliciting a fresh rumbling from the hounds. “By whom?”

  “Not whom—what,” Kedryn said, and told them of the leviathan’s attack and the taking of his wife.

  Rycol gasped at the telling, mouthing a curse as he turned to Marga and said, “The thing I thought I saw. Do you remember?” Marga nodded, her eyes troubled, and Rycol explained the strange floodtide they had witnessed and the shape he discerned moving south down the Idre.

  “So it was long-planned,” Kedryn murmured. “Ashar thinks ahead.”

  “And will doubtless anticipate your coming,” Rycol warned. “If only I had trusted my own eyes better and sent word. ”

  “You could not know and I shall not be defenseless,” Kedryn declared, explaining how Gerat had met them at GeSyn and told them of Qualle’s writings, describing Brannoc’s story of Drul’s sword.

  Rycol turned to the half-breed, his gray eyes narrow. “I have heard that tale, but I never gave it much credence. Do you truly believe it?”

  Brannoc nodded, his grin a shadow of its former self, and eased his buttocks to a more comfortable position. “As much as any legend. More than many. My aching bones are testament to my belief.”

  “It appears to conform with Gerat’s interpretation of Qualle’s writings,” said Kedryn. “And it is all I have.”

  Marga shook her head, in apprehension rather than disbelief, and filled cups with evshan, distributing the liquor as her husband looked to Tepshen Lahl, a question in his eyes.

  The kyo ducked his head once, grimly, and said, “The beast was not of this world.”

  “But to attempt what you plan ...” Rycol paused, stroking his grizzled mustache.

  “Would you have me abandon Wynett?” Kedryn fixed the chatelain with fierce eyes and Rycol shook his head in negation. “Then you must agree there is no other choice to it.”

  Rycol studied the younger man, seeing a face grown older than the youthful demeanor he remembered, seeing the agony of loss in the tired brown eyes, and chose his words with care.

  “You are the king now. As king do you deem it wise to risk your life in this way?”

  Kedryn sighed and took a long draft of evshan, coughing as the fierce spirit filled his belly with fire. “There is a council established,” he explained, outlining the measures he had instituted before quitting Andurel. “The Kingdoms will not fall apart in my absence. And I will not forsake Wynett!” He modified his tone, smiling wearily as he added, “I cannot abandon her, my friend. Further, there is the matter of Qualle’s prophecy.”

  Rycol frowned doubtfully. “Can that be trusted?”

  “The Paramount Sister of Estrevan believes it can,” said Kedryn. “She broke with all precedence to bring me word—would you gainsay her?”

  “No.” Rycol shook his head. “But to venture into die Beltrevan with only two companions ... at least take an escort.”

  “No.” It was Kedryn’s turn to shake his head, the movement sending sharp darts of pain down his back. “Remember our treaties with the woodsfolk. Mayhap it is Ashar’s design to foment fresh trouble by luring us into such a move. Do you think the passage of so large a body of armed men would go unnoticed? Do you think the tribes would accept it?”

  “I would not see you slain by the Drott,” Rycol argued.

  “And I would not see another war started,” said Kedryn.

  “The Drott are scattered,” said Brannoc. “They will not come together until the summer Gathering. We have enough time. Just.”

  “Just,” murmured Rycol, his tone dubious. “Do you think you can reach Drul’s Mound and disinter this blade before they find you?”

  Brannoc shrugged. Kedryn said, “Aye, I do.”

  “What if they do find you there?” Rycol insisted. “What then?”

  “Then likely they will kill us,” replied Kedryn, his voice flat. Rycol stared at him, then turned again to Tepshen. “Do you counsel this, old friend?”

  Had he hoped to find support in that quarter he was doomed to disappointment, for the easterner’s jet gaze met the chat- elain’s gray stare, Tepshen’s features impassive as he said, “I go where Kedryn goes.”

  “I cannot dissuade you.”

  It was not a question, though Kedryn answered it with a humorless smile and a dismissive movement of his head. Rycol sighed. “Then at least rest here a day or two. ”

  “A night,” Kedryn amended. “We depart on the morrow.” Rycol raised his hands helplessly. “Were you not the king I should consider holding you, albeit against your will—you all three look exhausted.”

  “But I am the king,” Kedryn responded, a hint of humor in his voice, “and it is my wish that we enter the Beltrevan as swiftly as we may.”

  “So be it,” Rycol allowed. “There will be fresh mounts ready far you.”

  “And two packhorses,” Brannoc said. “With supplies. Food for us and grain for the animals—foraging will slow us.”

  “And two packhorses,” Rycol agreed.

  “And clean clothes.” Marga gestured at their stained garments. “I shall see fresh outfits set ready for you.”

  “My thanks,” said Kedryn. “And now may we bathe?”

  He did not wait for an answer, but rose stiffly, bowing awkwardly to his hostess as her husband ushered him to the door and escorted them to the bathhouse.

  He had not realized how weary he was until he sank into the hot water, Tepshen and Brannoc slipping with grateful sighs into the pool beside him, all three resting chin-deep in the great tub as the warmth eased muscles strained by the long, hard ride, returning flexibility to joints set near-solid from the long hours in the saddle.

  They lay for a long time without speaking, content merely to float there until Kedryn rose and moved to the second pool, where they scrubbed themselves and sluiced off the grime beneath a jet of cold water. Masseurs completed the restorative process, and when they emerged they found the clothing promised by Marga waiting for them together with a Sister Hospitaler who insisted on examining them and applying ointments to their sorer parts before handing them packages of herbs that she explained would revivify them along the way.

  By then they were almost too sleepy to eat, and only the determination to fuel their bodies for the task ahead sat them at the table to consume the meal prepared. What little conversation took place was desultory and immediately they had satisfied their hunger they found their beds.

  Kedryn’s was in the chamber he had occupied on his previous visits to the fort, as familiar by now as his quarters in Caitin Hold, and he was quickly stretched on the hard mattress; even foster asleep. His last conscious thought was that the talisman he clutched, as he had clutched it every night since departing Geffyn, still vibrated with that faint, almost intangible life that assured him Wynett still survived.

  He dreamed of her, a confused jumble of impressions, seeing her beloved face smiling, believing her beside him in the bed, then seeing her again plunge toward the jaws of the behemoth, almost waking then, but foiling back into welcome slumber as his tired body imposed its own discipline on his troubled mind. When finally he came to wakefulness the sun limned a rectangle of brightness on the stone floor of the room and he climbed from the bed with a curse on his lips because he saw that the hour was long past dawn. Doubtless Rycol’s concern had prompted the chatelain to leave him abed, and his own exhaustion had done the rest. He glanced from the window, seeing the sun some distance above the eastern rim of the river canyon and crossed to the washstand to lave himself before tugging on his gear and belting his sword about his waist. Then, inflamed once more with urgency, he hurried to the dining hall.

  Rycol sat there with Tepshen at his side, the two men deep in conversation that ended as Kedryn joined them.

  “I deemed it wise to let you sleep,” the chatelain explained unapologetically. “Sister Onya suggested it.”

  “Sister Onya?” Kedryn helped himself to bread.

  “She replaced Wynett,” Rycol expanded. “It was she who examined you last night, and announced you near spent.” Kedryn began to protest, but Tepshen motioned him to silence and said, “We were all close to exhaustion, and we shall need our wits about us for what lies ahead.”

  Despite his impatience, Kedryn recognized the sense of his comrade’s admonishment and mumbled an apology.

  Brannoc entered the hall then, his customary cheerfulness regained with the night’s sound sleep, his appetite, too, for he set to eating with a will, urging Kedryn to do the same.

  “We ride hard and feist after today,” he said around a mouthful of coddled egg, “and likely eat cold food. Make the most of this excellent fore while you can.”

  Kedryn nodded his agreement, but still found his appetite diminished by fear for Wynett. What he did eat was swallowed without enjoyment, taken for the pure need of physical sustenance, and he pushed his plate away before Brannoc declared himself replete.

  “May we depart now?” he demanded as the half-breed sighed his contentment, fastidiously wiping his mouth.

  “Aye.” Brannoc rose unabashed by Kedryn’s ill-concealed impatience and bowed in Rycol’s direction. “My thanks for your hospitality, Lord Rycol.”

  The chatelain smiled thinly. Not very long ago he had advocated hanging Brannoc, and while the half-breed had since proven himself a trusted companion, earning Rycol’s respect, the gray-haired keeper of High Fort remained a trifle uncomfortable in the presence of the former wolf”s-head. “I am honored by your presence,” he murmured automatically, gesturing in the direction of the door. “Your mounts await you.”

  They followed him from the dining hall and through the winding corridors to the stableyard. Five horses stood ready. Three were stallions, two black, one gray, their deep chests and long legs attesting the cross-breeding of Tamurin and Keshi stock, fleet of foot and hardy, willing animals that could endure hardship without flagging, able to maintain a swift pace and then produce a burst of speed when called upon. The others were geldings, their lines more akin to the sturdy hill ponies of Tamur than the sleek chargers of Kesh. They were laden with supplies. Brannoc examined them all with a professional eye, admiration writ clear on his dark features.

  “They are the best I have,” Rycol declared. “And the packs are filled with journey fare and grain.”

  “They are superb,” nodded Brannoc.

  “I added bows.” Rycol gestured at the hide-wrapped packages slung beside each saddle. “And a score of arrows apiece. Shovels and picks, also, if you are to excavate the Mound.”

  “My thanks,” Kedryn said, taking the older man’s hand. “You do us proud.”

  Rycol stared at him, sadness in his stem eyes, and more than a little pride. “I do no more than my duty,” he murmured. “Wynett was—is —close to my heart, and I pray that the Lady ward you and guide you that you return her safe.”

  Kedryn nodded and swung astride one of the blacks. Tepshen took the second and Brannoc the gray, securing the long halter rope of the pack animals to his saddlehom, and with Rycol pacing them they rode through High Fort to the north gate.

  The Lady Marga waited for them here, resolutely concealing her anxiety as she bade them farewell and Ladyspeed.

  “Send word to Andurel,” was Kedryn’s last request.

  “I will,” Rycol promised, raising a hand in salute as the postern was swung open and the three men rode out.

  “We enter Ashar’s domain,” Brannoc announced as the hooves drummed on the hard stone of the Beltrevan road, his left hand shaping the three-fingered warding gesture.

  “On the Lady’s business,” Kedryn responded, his voice grim.

  “I have never ridden against a god before,” said the half- breed.

  Tepshen Lahl smiled briefly and said nothing.

  The chamber to which Eyrik escorted Wynett was intimate. Scented candles burned in sconces on the white stone walls and a spray of wild flowers occupied the center of a table set for dinner with silver platters and exquisite crystal goblets. Two windows looked out onto the courtyard, the perspective reassuringly normal after the incongruities of the other rooms she had seen, though two more distorted spatial dimensions by overlooking the lawns, now darkening into night. Two chairs faced one another across the table and Eyrik brought Wynett to the one facing inward, as though aware of the sensory confusion wrought by the physical impossibilities of the fabulous palace. He held her chair until she was seated and settled himself on the far side, reaching across to fill her goblet with ruby wine.

  “I trust it is to your liking,” he smiled as he filled his own glass.

  Wynett raised the goblet to her lips, finding the vintage excellent, drinking deep to quell the turmoil aroused by the image of Kedryn the strange pool had revealed.

  “How can it be?” she murmured, almost to herself, though Eyrik answered with a smile and a shrug.

  ‘The pool? Who knows? Different rules govern here.”

  “Did I truly see him?” she wondered.

  “Aye, truly,” confirmed her enigmatic host. ‘The pool does not lie.”

  He gestured at the roast steaming fragrantly on a gleaming platter, surrounded by succulent vegetables. “May I help you to meat? You must surely be hungry.”

  Wynett was not sure. She felt sure of hardly anything, save that she was alive—though not of how, or where—but Eyrik took her silence as agreement and proceeded to carve the meat, forking thick slices onto her plate, adding vegetables, and she began to eat more from habit than want of food. Nonetheless, it was delicious and the first mouthful aroused her appetite, eliciting a pleased smile from the brownhaired man.

  “It is good, is it not?” he inquired just as she was about to press him with further questions, and she smiled faintly, nodding, “It is very good.”

  “I am delighted,” he said enthusiastically. “I would have your sojourn here be as pleasant as possible.”

  Wynett studied his face, wondering, and he smiled, dabbing at his lips with a spotless napkin before raising his goblet again and declaring, ‘To your reunification.”

  It seemed a somewhat strange toast, but his expression was without guile and his smile appeared genuine: she lifted her own goblet and drank in response.

  “Are there not servants?” she asked as she set the glass down.

  “Do you require aught else?”

  His tone was solicitous and Wynett shook her head. “No, your fare is excellent.”

  “Good,” he murmured, “I was afraid you found some fault in my hospitality.”

  “None,” she replied, and Eyrik smiled as though relieved.

  “More wine?”

  Before she could answer with either affirmative or negative he was pouring the rich red liquid into her glass, for all the world no more than a man intent on proving himself a good host. Wynett drank again, hardly aware that he had not answered her question, for he went on speaking, commenting on the flavor of the vegetables and the meat, asking if the sauce was to her liking, inviting her comments on the silver and the chamber, his conversation light, seeming less devious than anxious to please, concerned for her comfort.

  She ate her fill and Eyrik removed the platters to a sideboard with the casual comment that they could be cleared away later, which she took to be confirmation of unseen servants. He brought a bowl of fruit to the table and when she selected an apple, insisted on peeling it for her, coring the fruit and presenting her with neatly cut segments.

  “Thank you,” she smiled, though she found his attentions a trifle overwhelming.

  Eyrik beamed, white teeth gleaming in the candlelight, the yellow glow striking gold from his thick chestnut hair. He ate an apple, too, his incisors cleaving the fruit sharply as a knife, swallowing wine between bites. Wynett finished her portion and found herself abruptly tired, hiding a yawn behind her napkin.

  “Would you retire?” Eyrik asked.

  She nodded, realizing that her lids drooped, heavy over eyes that were suddenly blurred with weariness. The candles seemed to waver in their sconces, their radiance hypnotic, shimmering against the pristine whiteness of the walls. She yawned again, this time making no effort to conceal it, and Eyrik was instantly on his feet, coming around the table to draw back her chair. She rose and took the arm he presented, fatigue filling her now, weighting her feet so that the few steps it took to cross the small chamber seemed ponderous, slowed by her weariness.

  Eyrik opened the door and they walked out into the courtyard. A full moon hung directly above the atrium, silvering the vinous growths twining around the pillars, reflecting from the water of the fountain. The scents of magnolia and jasmine mingled in air still warm from the sun’s heat, the tendrils rustled by a hunt, pleasantly cool breeze. Moonlight and shadow made a latticework on the flagstones, the soft musical tinkling of the fountain an auricular counterpoint.

  “Is it not lovely?” Eyrik murmured, his voice low, as if he feared that sound might disturb the scene.

  Wynett nodded, for it was indeed a magical sight.

  “But you are tired,” he said, a fraction louder. “Come, I shall escort you to your chambers.”

  He eased a hand beneath her arm, holding her elbow as though afraid she might falter, and took her across the yard to the winding, rose-decked stairway.