The slope was steep at first, but then leveled to a more gradual descent as it approached the river, grass becoming more abundant with the presence of water. It was close on noon and Brannoc suggested they halt before fording and allow the animals to forage. With only a small display of reluctance Kedryn agreed and they dismounted, hobbling the animals. The horses began to crop enthusiastically on the herbage and the three men chewed smoked meat and dried fruit.

  “We are likely to encounter woodlanders ere long,” Brannoc remarked. “Caroc, most likely, but later Drott. Should any question our presence, we are come to seek out Cord.”

  “I have no byavan,” Kedryn returned, referring to the lingua franca of the tribes.

  “No matter.” Brannoc shrugged negligently. “I speak both Drott and Caroc. Should we be questioned I shall explain that you are the hef-Alador, and come to visit with your old friend.”

  Kedryn grinned at the notion of a casual visit to the ulan of the fiercest tribe, but Tepshen frowned, turning a doubtful face to Brannoc.

  “What if they decide to escort us?” he demanded.

  “I shall endeavor to dissuade them,” Brannoc answered. “If they will not be dissuaded . . . ,” he shrugged, “. . . then we must kill them.”

  Kedryn’s grin froze at this casual suggestion and he shook his head. “I would not see innocent blood spilled.”

  “There is little innocent blood in the Beltrevan,” said Brannoc.

  “Nonetheless,” Kedryn insisted. “I prefer to avoid such callous action. It smacks too much of Ashar’s way. We need the Lady’s blessing on what we attempt and that may be withheld should we resort to Ashar’s means.”

  “Mayhap the Lady will bring us through unseen,” Brannoc retorted, “but should some wandering band of Drott take it upon themselves to provide escort to Cord we shall forfeit all chance of entering Drubs Mound. No matter what regard he holds you in, he will not permit you to rummage through that tomb.”

  “Pray that is not necessary,” Tepshen suggested. “And if it is, leave the killing to Brannoc and me.”

  “I would not jeopardize our mission or your souls,” Kedryn argued, “and I believe that wanton killing may thwart the protections Gerat gave you.”

  “My soul is my own,” the kyo returned calmly. “My duty is to you. If killing aids your mission, then kill I shall.”

  “I will endeavor to avoid contact,” Brannoc added. “It may be that we can reach the Mound unseen. If not . . . well, let us extemporize.”

  Kedryn found himself in a quandary. Speed was of the essence if they were to reach Drul’s Mound before the summer

  Gathering, and that speed would be greatly reduced should they need to skulk through the forests like night-come thieves. Fear for Wynett prompted him to accept the expedient measure, and he recognized the sense of Tepshen’s dubiety: the company of tribesmen might well thwart his purpose. Yet he could not accept that casual killing would find favor with the Lady, and he was certain beyond any doubt that he must fail without her blessing. He gnawed on the problem, a hand moving unthinking to the talisman beneath his shirt, tugging it loose that he might enclose it in his fist. He felt its vibration and turned toward Brannoc.

  “Should we encounter woodlanders, might you not tell them we travel under religious vows? That those require us to travel alone?”

  Brannoc’s swarthy face creased in a frown as he contemplated the notion, then he shrugged, snorting half-hearted laughter. “It is not that far removed from the truth. Mayhap they would accept it. But mayhap also they would follow us anyway.”

  “Our horses lend an advantage,” Kedryn pressed. “How could they pace us?”

  “They are of the forests,” replied the half-breed, bluntly.

  “So are you,” said Kedryn.

  Brannoc nodded, dark eyes fixed on Kedryn. “Are you sure no blood must be spilled? Even though clemency jeopardize our mission?”

  “Aye,” the younger man confirmed, still holding the talisman, “I am.”

  ‘Then we had best travel warily,” sighed Brannoc.

  “And soon,” Kedryn declared, wishing to bring the discussion to an end.

  He swallowed a mouthful of water, thus missing the look Brannoc exchanged with Tepshen, and climbed to his feet. The others rose with him and they removed the hobbles, settling packs in place and mounting the rested animals.

  “We must ride west a little,” said Brannoc. “The ford lies in that direction.”

  Kedryn urged his stallion to a trot, following the bank of the Alagor, his face turned toward the forest’s edge looming across the water. Tepshen and Brannoc fell in behind him, riding close.

  “Should it happen ...” The kyo touched the hilt of the long eastern blade slung across his back.

  “Aye,” nodded Brannoc.

  They rode for half the afternoon before the half-breed announced the river safe to cross. There was a beach of shale settled within a cup of stone, the Alagor rippling clear over the pebbles, and Brannoc took the lead, urging his gray horse down into the water. The animal snorted a protest, but forged ahead, rapidly moving chest-deep into the stream. Soon it was swimming, Brannoc slipping from the saddle to clutch the horn as the beast carried him across. He emerged dripping on the far bank and scanned the timber before waving to the others. Tepshen separated the pack animals, handing one halter line to Kedryn, who tugged the reluctant horse behind him as he heeled his black into the river. With the sight of Brannoc’s gray on the opposite bank, the stallion struck out not unwillingly, towing both Kedryn and the smaller horse behind. The current was strong, and the water cold despite the summer sun shining on the surface, and Kedryn emerged some distance down from Brannoc. He walked back along the bank as Tepshen crossed, the kyo striking out at an angle that brought him level with Brannoc’s position even as Kedryn reached the beach.

  The bank was shadowed by the mass of trees arid the three men shivered, emptying water from their boots and drying their weapon before remounting and striking into the timber. They ignored the discomfort of soaking garments for the sake of speed, and it was not until the shadows elongated, presaging night’s fell that they halted again, building a fire around which they huddled, steam rising from their clothes.

  The next day Kedryn was awake with the birds that chorused a greeting to the dawn, aware that he now stood in Ashar’s territory, anxious to press on. He built the fire to fresh life and checked the horses, finding none of them the worse for their duncking. Soon Tepshen and Brannoc rose and they ate a hurried breakfast, then mounted, the half-breed taking the lead again as they rode steadily deeper into the Beltrevan, steadily closer to Drul’s Mound and whatever unknown hazards awaited there.

  Chapter Nine

  The wagon rumbled with agonizing slowness over the dusty road that trailed the Idre northward, its passage marked by the gray-white clouds the wheels and hooves raised. Wyxx sat stolid as ever on the seat, holding the four horses to the pace he maintained was the swiftest they could safely manage, Gerat beside him, Ashrivelle and Donella in the box behind, the Paramount Sister turning to speak with the blond woman.

  “I am not sure how I may aid them,” she said, “but I am certain I can do it better from High Fort than Estrevan. The Sacred City is too far removed from the Beltrevan, whilst Rycol’s hold sits on the very doorstep.”

  “But what can you do?” Ashrivelle demanded. “If they succeed in entering the netherworld then surely they will go beyond even the compass of your powers.”

  “I am not sure,” Gerat repeated patiently, curbing the temptation to wonder if it had not been better to send Ashrivelle on to Estrevan from Genyff. Since departing the riverside settlement she had done little but ply Gerat with questions, each one concerned with Kedryn’s welfare, and it seemed to Gerat that her interest was more than sisterly. Ashrivelle, she thought, transferred her affections, though why that should trouble her she was not clear. The princess would, after all, go on to Estrevan if she remained intent on expunging her self-imposed guilt by seeking the life of a lay Sister, and even should she choose to remit that decision, Kedryn’s love for Wynett was not of a kind to be easily forgotten. He would not, Gerat was confident, turn in search of solace to Ashrivelle. If, she reminded herself, he emerged unscathed from Ashar’s domain.

  “Proximity may be of benefit,” she continued, “and Rycol will send mehdri with word to my Sisters of what is attempted. Mayhap we shall be able to establish a connection with Estrevan through the agency of our Senders.”

  Had she hoped that would silence Ashrivelle it was forlorn optimism, for the princess frowned and demanded, “I had thought the Gadrizels denied such linkage.”

  “They do,” Gerat answered, stifling a sigh. “Usually, they do; but if Senders are located at the entrance to the Morfah Pass—then through it—and one travels to High Fort, the natural barrier imposed by the mountains may be overcome, and I shall be able to draw on Estrevan’s power to augment my own.”

  “But if you do not know how,” Ashrivelle began, cut off by Gerat’s abrupt response.

  “Guidance may be granted me, Ashrivelle. And you must learn to accept that the Lady works in her own ways—she does not always set down exactly what we must do, but leaves some work to us. By establishing contact with Estrevan—if l am able—then I shall at least have the resources of all the Sisterhood to draw on. Mayhap I shall then be able to extend the Lady’s power into the Beltrevan, or even into the netherworld, I am not sure, but I shall do all I can think of and at present that is all I can think of.”

  Ashrivelle nodded thoughtfully and Gerat could see fresh questions forming in her blue eyes. Enough, she thought, you have asked me enough when I have sufficient doubts of my own at a time I should have none. Seeking to forestall the blond woman she turned away, studying the road ahead. It stretched before her like a challenge, straight and long, leading to High Fort, certainly, but oh, so slowly, so very slowly when, she did feel sure, time was an essential factor in the godly game.

  She heard Donella murmur something to Ashrivelle and blessed the young acolyte for her perspicacity as the princess fell silent, leaving her to her own thoughts.

  Did any of them, she wondered, realize what lay at stake? More than the lives of Kedryn and Wynett, Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc, though those were, without doubt, precious enough. The cold-eyed easterner and the laughing half-breed were brave men and their lives would be sadly mourned should they fall. Wynett, still soul kin for all she had relinquished the devotions of the Sorority, was vital to Kedryn’s strength, a part of him now; and Kedryn was the Chosen One. If Ashar should defeat him there would be none to oppose the god, none capable of doing more than dying in denial of his ghastly might. And should Ashar succeed in securing the talismans his might would become insuperable.

  The thought chilled her, her mind moving instinctively away from its contemplation. She forced herself to concentrate upon it.

  If Ashar should secure both talismans he would be able to surmount the barriers established by the Lady to hold him beyond the Lozins. He would have no further need of minions such as the Messenger or Hattim Sethiyan to work his will in the Kingdoms for he would emerge himself, an awful, godly plague upon mankind. The threat of the Horde was as nothing beside that danger. He would stalk like destruction incarnate through the Kingdoms, reaping lives as those farmers beside the road scythed the early wheat. There would be only desolation then and everything the Lady had given, everything Estrevan sought to nurture, would become ashes and annihilation.

  Was that the mad god's intent, ultimately? Was that the end he worked toward? The leviathan sent not to destroy Kedryn as she had at first suspected, but to bring the talismans—or one, at least—within Ashar’s grasp? Were that the case then the stone could be in no firmer hands than Wynett’s, for she would surely not relinquish it willingly, and to utilize its power it must be given of Wynett’s free will. And yet . . . and yet, could even Wynett stand against the blandishments of that primal being? The god of lies, of deceits, the god of duplicity, he was all of those, and the face he showed Wynett might seem fair. Might—Gerat’s hands clenched into fists at the thought—seduce even Wynett into compliance.

  Games within games, Gerat thought. Beside this the suborning of Hattim Sethiyan is as nothing; the threat of the Horde a clumsy ploy. It is a game that forces the players to conform to rules they know nothing of, for the rules are established by Ashar as he sees fit. Should Ashar secure both halves of the talisman all is lost, and even now Kedryn brings the one half to him. Yet Kedryn must enter the netherworld, for if he does not then Ashar holds Wynett and her half and the Chosen One is consequently weakened by that loss. And the only sure way to defeat the god is to believe in Qualle’s words and trust in the Lady to see Kedryn through, for only by entering Ashar’s domain may he obtain the means of Ashar’s destruction.

  “Lady, watch over him,” she said to herself. “Watch over them all and endow them with your strength that they may succeed.”

  She did not add the ugly thought that lingered at the tail of the prayer: even though it means their deaths, let them succeed.

  She pushed that from her mind for it chilled her and she felt icy fingers play upon her spine. She shivered, feeling her flesh creep, and realized that cold gripped her, as if she sat, not upon a wagon seat warmed by the bright sun of a summer morning, but in some hibernal place where frigid vapors wreathed her in wintry rigor.

  “What ails you, Sister?”

  She heard Donella’s voice and turned in startled surprise to find the acolyte’s brown eyes studying her with nervous concern, seeing Wyxx, too, cast a curious gaze her way. She realized that her teeth chattered and clenched them against the brumal chill.

  She began to say, “Nothing,” but saw only mounting alarm in Donella’s eyes as the word came out a stutter, a castanet rattling of tooth against tooth.

  Then it was gone and the air was warm again, the only hint of chill the pleasant zephyr that blew off the Idre, and she said it: “Nothing. I lost myself in contemplation.”

  Donella continued to stare at her and she smiled, willing a reassurance she did not entirely share on the acolyte.

  “It was nothing. The breeze blew chill for a moment and I was far away.”

  But she knew it was not that, for the chill was such as strikes when the mind’s inner eye discovers some hidden watcher and the body reacts. It was a chill of fear, of loathing of the concealed gaze.

  Does Ashar watch me? she wondered. Can the presence of Wynett, of the talisman, within his realm allow him to spy?

  Cautiously she opened her mind, sending forth wary mental feelers, but there was nothing, only Donella’s concern and Wyxx’s placidity and Ashrivelle’s confusion. She shut those out, not wishing to invade the privacy of her companions, and found nothing else. I must be careful, she thought. More care- fill than I have ever been, for I must give nothing away to the god. Deliberately, she filled her mind with thoughts of the Lady, letting her gaze wander over the pleasant landscape of Tamur that stretched about her, over the fields and woods, the rolling hills in the distance and the higher wolds ahead. They basked in the sun, the sky a pure blue, white clouds like sails against the azure. Birds sang and insects buzzed, the horses made a steady drumbeat on the road, and in a little while she was calm again. Calm, but still wary.

  Sunlight dappled die forest trail with harlequin patterns of shadow and brightness as Brannoc led the way steadily deeper into the timber. The Alagor shone silver through the trees, invisible more often than not as the half-breed took them along the secret ways of the Beltrevan. It was so different now than when Kedryn had last seen it, the trees rimed white with frost, their boughs heavy-laden with snow, the trails vanished under winter’s white mande. Now all was green, the paths cut dark, bare earth where feet and hooves stamped out the grass that otherwise spread everywhere the brackens and brambles allowed. And it was noisy. The Alagor sounded a susurrating background melody and the wind rustled the foliage overhead, birds chorused, small, unseen animals chattered, and occasionally a startled deer charged from their advance. The shod hooves of the five horses drummed against the trail, and for all the oiling and tying-down of tack and gear Kedryn could hear the creak of leather and the jingle of metal.

  He studied Brannoc’s back, seeing the man turn his plaited head steadily from side to side, knowing that his forester’s ears were attuned to any sound that did not belong among the natural symphony of the timberland. Then Brannoc raised a hand in warning and curbed his mount to a halt. Behind, Kedryn heard the soft scrape of leather on linen as Tepshen unlatched his scabbard, letting the blade slide down from shoulder to hip in readiness. He turned, glancing at the kyo, who stared back with impassive gaze, and swung in his saddle to watch Brannoc again.

  The half-breed beckoned them forward and they moved up at a walk. The trail widened where he waited, paths entering from left and right to form a crossroads at which Brannoc pointed.

  “Tracks.” He gestured to the right; Kedryn saw only the hard-packed dirt. “They move in the same direction; slowly.”

  “Which tribe?” Kedryn asked.

  “Caroc by my guess,” Brannoc responded, dismounting and tossing his reins to the younger man. He walked a few paces along the trail with his eyes on the ground, then knelt to examine the spoor more closely. “A family group. Perhaps five warriors and as many women. Likely some children and oldsters.”

  “Peaceful?” demanded Tepshen.

  Brannoc shrugged. “Probably.”

  “What do we do?” Kedryn wondered as the half-breed remounted.

  “We can go around them and lose half a day,” said Brannoc. “A full day if we are to be certain of avoiding any hunters they may have out. Or we can ride on and hope they will not detain us.”

  “If they are peaceful why should they be a threat?”

  Brannoc grinned at the question. “The Beltrevan teaches that everything is a threat, my friend. Treaties or no, the Caroc may object to our wandering at will through their territory. And they may have forgotten that you slew Niloc Yarrum to become hef-Alador; I cannot tell, but you have a decision to make.”