They climbed upward, longer, it seemed to Wynett, than her original descent had taken, though she assumed that was due to fatigue, and halted before a door filigreed with the shifting patterns of moonlight shining through the overhanging trellis of roses. Eyrik turned the golden handle and pushed the door inward, removing his hand from Wynett’s arm as he bowed decorously.

  “Sleep well,” he urged, making no move to enter, and Wynett murmured, “Goodnight,” and went in, closing the door behind her.

  Candles burned softly in the outer chamber and she saw that a single column was set beside her bed. She slid the bolt into its sockets and yawned hugely, noticing that the windows were shuttered. Rejecting the temptation to simply throw herself upon the bed and let sleep come, she undressed, choosing a nightgown from the selection in the wardrobes, and went into the alcove to perform her ablutions. Only then did she enter the sleeping chamber.

  Shutters were latched over the windows here, too, and because it was her habit to sleep in an aerated room she went to open them, turning them back against the walls where they fastened with small golden catches. She pushed the flawless glass open and paused a moment at the casement as the breeze she had felt in the atrium bathed her face in cool air. At first it was pleasantly refreshing, redolent of grass and the bosky odors of the woodland, and she was on the point of turning to the bed, but then some other sent intruded and she inhaled, curious to identify the fume. It was pungent, smelling of decay, as if something rotted and the breeze carried the effluvium. Her nostrils pinched as it grew stronger and she exhaled vigorously, seeking to expel the malodorous scent. Then it was gone and the night once again bore the fragrance of growing things. She leaned against the embrasure, staring out into the darkness as she wondered what the reek had been. The lawns were clearly visible under the moon’s silver fulgence, though the woodland bordering the stream was a solid, subfusc mass, as if it absorbed the lambency, swallowing light to return only shadow. It was as though the building from which she stared stood within a pool of light, surrounded by the umbra of the timber that stretched out to fuse with the velvet blackness of the sky. She had the impression of standing alone on some great vessel, seeing only the dark unknown all around.

  Then she felt her skin chill, apprehensive pinpricks dancing like tiny needles over her bare forearms, the hairs at the nape of her neck standing upright as a howl echoed from the aphotic wood. It was akin to a lupine moon-hymn, but there was a quality to it that had no part of any wolf’s .wail. It was thin at first, a keening, but then it grew in volume, becoming a lament, empty of hope, filled with despair and suffering. It battered at her ears, syphoning her with dread so that she clutched instinctively at the talisman, mouthing a prayer to the Lady. It ululated into silence, quavering to a stop, and she shivered, aware of perspiration moist on her face and back. For long moments she stared over the moonlit lawns toward the darkened woodland, wondering if the awful lament would sound again, hoping it would not, but nonetheless curious as to its origin, and then drew back from the window, still holding firm to the talisman as she folded her arms across her breast and willed her involuntary trembling to cease.

  She tried to tell herself that whatever made the sound was some animal—a wolf or a forest cat—but in this weird place she was not sure, thinking that if windows could admit sunlight where no windows could be and rooms extended beyond their natural, physical limits, then anything might inhabit the wood. Unthinking, propelled by insensate urgency, she unlatched the shutters and folded them again across the window before hurrying to the bed.

  She had climbed beneath the covers before she remembered that the candles still burned in the outer chamber, but she lacked the will to rise and snuff them, preferring the reassurance of their light to the alternative of darkness. Still holding tight to Kyrie’s stone she closed her eyes and let sleep come.

  It was deep and dreamless and she woke surprised to see sunlight barring the walls, gold and white striating the stone, mundane motes of dust floating in the radiance. The candle still burned beside her bed and those in the outer chamber still shone in their sconces, none seeming reduced, their flames standing straight and true. The numbing horror that had gripped her before seemed foolish in the light of the new day, though its echoes still rang in her mind and she lay still, looking about her before she cast off the covers and rose. Outside birds sang matins and, as was her custom, she joined them in a brief prayer, then resolutely crossed to the shuttered window and threw back the screens.

  Sunlight bathed her face; the air was balmy. The lawns shone verdant, the buttercups and daisies littering the grass, a patch- work of welcome normality. The brook glistened; beyond it the woods formed a green mosaic of sylvan tranquillity. A zephyr stirred her hair and she felt all the apprehension of the previous night dissolve. It was a wolf, she told herself, nothing more than a wolf; or perhaps a cat, that spread of seemingly endless timber was large enough to contain the great predators of the forest. She chose to ignore the small, sceptical voice that muttered at the back of her mind, for to listen to it was to allow madness a foothold in this strange place.

  She snubbed the candle beside her bed and entered the dressing room, performing her toilette before selecting another gown from the wardrobes, a thing of soft, green silk that fitted as well as the discarded blue robe; as though made specifically for her. Then, determined that this day she would ask all the questions she wanted, she went out onto the balcony.

  The light there was pink, filtered through rose petals, the balcony seeming an ethereal creation that floated above the atrium, where she saw Eyrik lounging beside the fountain. He looked up as she studied him, as though he sensed her presence, and waved cheerily.

  “Are you hungry?” he called. “Breakfast awaits.”

  Wynett descended the arboreal stairway to find a table set close to the foot. Immaculate linen draped the surface, spread with salvers containing butter and bread, fruit, cold meats and cheeses, eggs, several compotes. Porcelain cups stood beside the plates and at the center of the table a pot exuded the aromatic odor of a tisane. Eyrik was on his feet waiting for her, dressed today in a loose shirt of dark green and snug black breeks, high boots laced upon his feet. His smile was brilliant as he bowed.

  “You are lovely,” he complimented. “I believe that color suits you better even than the blue. Did you sleep well?”

  Again, Wynett felt that sensation of being overwhelmed by his attentions as he held her chair and saw her seated, dutifully filling her cup and inquiring which of the delicacies set before her he might help her to.

  “I heard something,” she remarked, firm in her determination to have answers from him.

  “Something?” He presented her with bread, still warm from the oven, not quite interrupting her, but still succeeding in disrupting her concentration.

  She took the bread and nodded, refusing to meet his gold- flecked gaze. “Before I slept. I think it came from the woods.”

  “From the woods?” he echoed, his smile quizzical. “Do you prefer eggs or meat? Some cheese, perhaps?”

  He would not be forestalled and Wynett allowed him to fill a plate with cold meat and a thick slice of yellow cheese. She said, “Aye. It sounded like a wolf, but ...”

  “Mayhap it was,” he said easily. “I trust you were not frightened?”

  She was about to tell him that the wailing had filled her with dread, but thought better of it and shook her head.

  “I am not sure it was a wolf. ”

  “There are wolves in the farther reaches; and forest cats.” He took an egg, boiled hard in its shell, and began to peel the carapace away. There was a delicacy to his movements that belied the obvious strength of his powerful hands and Wynett found the action oddly disturbing, almost mesmeric.

  When he was done and the fragments of shell littered his plate he raised the egg to his mouth and bit down. His teeth severed the soft albumen with an almost unnatural precision, so even were they. “Mayhap it was a cat. Hunting, I expect.”

  His eyes met Wynett’s and she felt her gaze captured and held, her resolve dissipating under his ingenuous smile. “Mayhap,” she agreed.

  “You need not be afraid,” he informed her. “They do not venture close to this place. Though if you care for hunting .. . ?”

  Wynett shook her head in answer.

  “Of course not.” His expression became instantly apologetic. “You were of Estrevan—you would not enjoy the spilling of blood.”

  “I see no reason to kill, save to eat,” she murmured, vaguely wondering why she felt any need to explain. “The Lady teaches us that ...” She halted, frowning. “How is it you know so much about me?”

  Eyrik shrugged. “Do you not wear that talisman?”

  “Aye.” Wynett glanced down instinctively at the stone suspended between her breasts, aware for the first time that the green gown was cut somewhat low in that area.

  “May I see it?”

  Eyrik leaned forward, his eyes frankly appreciative as they moved over her bust. Wynett was not sure whether modesty or some inchoate apprehension prompted her to raise her hands, the one holding a napkin that served to obscure her cleavage, the other cupping the jewel.

  “I may not remove it,” she said. “It was given in cognizance of a vow. ”

  Eyrik’s right hand extended toward the talisman, halting a finger’s width from the stone, whether from regard for her modesty or some other motivation, Wynett could not be certain. She noticed for the first time that his nails were long, very white, and almost pointed. A thought of claws crossed her mind, then was dismissed as he smiled and said, “Never?”

  “Never.” She shook her head in confirmation, and saw his eyes flash for an instant, the gold flecks seeming to spark against the brown.

  “No matter,” he said softly, resuming his amiable stance.

  Wynett allowed the stone to fall back against her skin. It felt cooler than usual and as it touched her again she felt it tingle, sending little prickles deep into her flesh, much like the urtication she had felt at the howling in the night.

  “So,” he asked her, “would you view the pool again? Mayhap we shall see further sign of Kedryn’s approach.”

  Wynett nodded eagerly. “Do you know that he comes? Have you sought to use those powers you spoke of?”

  “He comes, have no doubt of it,” Eyrik assured her. “How long the journey may take him I cannot know for sure, but he does come. Of that I am certain.”

  There was a note of anticipatory triumph in his tone that Wynett assumed stemmed from his obvious desire to please, and she smiled as he rose, offering his arm, forgetting any further questions as he escorted her across the yard to a shadowed door of dark blue wood.

  It opened directly into the blue-lit chamber containing the pool and without preamble Eyrik brought her to the circle, leaning forward with one hand resting casually at her back. Wynett scarcely noticed the touch, peering down into the argent disk with wide eyes and hope-filled heart.

  “Do you see it?” Eyrik murmured, his soft question seeming faraway, whispery as water rustling over stones.

  Wynett stared at the immobile surface, at first seeing only the translucent liquid, then saw it shimmer again, rippling without movement, an image forming, unclear at first, but then becoming lucid. She stifled a gasp as the oracle revealed not Kedryn, but a wagon, painted pale blue and drawn by four horses. A grizzled, gray-headed man dressed in a simple tunic of brown leather held the reins and beside him sat a woman wearing the blue robe of Estrevan, her hair a sleek black, her eyes a startling blue.

  “Gerat!” Wynett mouthed.

  “Gerat?” queried Eyrik.

  “The Paramount Sister of Estrevan,” Wynett whispered, her gaze still fastened on the vision.

  She did not hear Eyrik’s sharp intake of breath because she was watching Gerat turn on the wagon seat to speak with the women riding in the box. One she did not recognize, save as an acolyte, but the other she knew instantly. That sun-golden hair, like the features, so similar to her own, belonged to no one other than her sister and she said aloud, “It is Ashrivelle.”

  The image flickered on the name, shifting and blurring so that her only other impression was of sunlight and a dusty trail, some hint of running water in the distance. It dissolved even as she willed it to remain and the pool was once more clear and fathomless.

  “Your sister.” Eyrik’s voice was thoughtful. “And the Paramount Sister of Estrevan.”

  Wynett nodded, confused. “Why that?” she asked. “Why did I see Gerat and Ashrivelle?”

  Eyrik shrugged, his smile consoling. “I do not know. The pool reveals what it will. Mayhap they ride with Kedryn.”

  “I did not see Kedryn,” Wynett responded, her voice forlorn.

  “But they are doubtless linked to Kedryn.”

  Eyrik stared at the pool, his comment absent, as though other thoughts filled his mind. Wynett turned to face him. “Ashrivelle was with us on the barge,” she offered.

  “And so you know she, too, survived,” he said. “Is that not good news?”

  “Aye, but I had hoped to see Kedryn.” She knew that her tone was petulant and felt immediately ashamed. “Can you not summon his image?”

  “I do not control the pool,” Eyrik told her. “Much as I would grant your every wish, I cannot summon that which it will not show. I am sorry.”

  “No,” Wynett murmured, “it is I who should apologize.' You do your best to aid me, yet I behave like a child when I fail to see what I want.”

  “You could never behave like a child,” he retorted gallantly. “Your disappointment is understandable, and consequently entirely forgivable.”

  “Perhaps later,” she wondered.

  “Perhaps,” he agreed. “You may come here whenever you wish—you do not need me. Simply enter the blue door and you will find the pool.”

  Wynett frowned incomprehension. “I had believed your agency was necessary,” she said.

  Eyrik shook his head. “At first, perhaps. But now the pool will respond to you alone. And if I am to aid you, I shall need to work alone at times.” He drew her toward the door, smiling reassuringly. “There is a certain amount of . . . danger ... in what I must do, and I would not subject you to that.”

  Wynett was about to ask him exactly what was involved, but they were at the door and he was leading her through into the courtyard, beaming as he tilted his head back to stare up at the brilliant sun, suggesting that they walk beyond the walls, and before she could voice her queries he had her hand and was moving toward a far door, enthusiastically describing the glories of the gardens she had not yet seen.

  Without chance of finding remounts in the forest country, Kedryn was forced to hold a steady pace for fear of winding the horses. His impulse was to charge headlong into the Beltrevan, but common sense prevailed and he held the black stallion to a canter that ate the miles without exhausting the animal until they turned off the canyon trail and began the arduous climb into the heights of the Lozins. They made no attempt to conceal their coming, relying on the clusters of red and white feathers, symbolic of peaceful intent, that Brannoc tied to the bridles and their scabbards, and the treaties concluded with the tribes, to guarantee their safe passage.

  For the first three days they descended the scarp of the mountains, traversing bare flanks of rock where only pines caught lonely footing, moving along ravines and over slopes of treacherous scree, moving steadily northwestward. It was a switchback trail, each vertiginous descent seeming matched by a climb, the gulleys that Brannoc assured his impatient companion were shortcuts seeming always to lead to yet another ascent, sometimes so precipitous that they needed to dismount and lead the animals, bringing them singly to the crests. Kedryn wondered if the straighter trail north along the Idre might not have been the swifter, but bowed before the half-breed’s superior knowledge of the mountains, allowing Brannoc to pick their way as he curbed his haste, fighting the temptation of impetuosity. They rode from dawn to noon to dusk, halting only to rest the animals and snatch food from the packs Rycol had provided, camping as darkness fell, too weary to do more than build a fire, eat, and roll themselves into their blankets to sleep in preparation for departure at first light.

  Then, on the fourth day, the craggy terrain gentled, the stands of pine becoming thicker and more numerous, clumps of sparse grass showing where soil found purchase on the stone. Brannoc led the way along a twisting ravine that began to climb toward its northern end and they emerged onto a small plateau. The half-breed reined in; staring ahead with his mouth curved in a smile, one hand rising to encompass the vista spread before them.

  “The Beltrevan,” he said softly, almost reverentially.

  Kedryn and Tepshen halted to either side, silent as they studied the panorama below. Both had seen the forest country before, but its sheer enormity still impressed, its vastness breathtaking. Before them the ground slanted down to the bend of a river, the waterway a boundary between foothills and forest. Beyond the river the timber started, an immense ocean of woodland that stretched to the far horizons, a harlequin riot of greens that dulled and faded into blue where forest met sky, merging, seeming to run on forever, endlessly. Summer brought it to its fullest flourish, obscuring all details beneath the burgeoning mass of leaf-decked branches, the river turning into the trees lost from sight as if swallowed by the woodland, the timber possessing the world with an ageless dendrological majesty.

  “Where does Drul’s Mound lie?” Kedryn demanded, the prospect of navigating that arboreal sea daunting.

  Brannoc’s hand swung to point a fraction north of northwest. “In that direction. The river is the Alagor: we follow it.”

  Kedryn grunted and drove his heels against the stallion’s flanks, urging the big horse forward over the rim of the plateau without further comment. Tepshen glanced at Brannoc and took his own mount over, the two packhorses behind. Brannoc sat for a moment, staring at the timber country, then made the warding gesture and followed his two comrades.