She had decided to seek him out then, and entered the chamber of the oracular pool. It had been empty, but even as she determined to investigate the farther rooms, she had felt herself drawn to the silver disk at the center. Eyrik had told her it would respond to her alone now, and she had knelt beside it, staring into the bottomless well as she willed it to show her some image of Kedryn.

  She shuddered as she recalled what she had seen, her mind withdrawing from the picture presented her, then, with an effort of will, made herself study it again in memory.

  The pool had remained translucent at first, then shimmered as it had done before, seeming to shift within its depths, outlines forming to become slowly clearer until a definite manifestation became visible. Wynett had stared, scarcely able to credit what she saw, her mind rebelling even as her gaze was held, transfixed by the scene.

  Kedryn had sat within a stone-walled chamber, lounging in a high-backed wooden chair, a tall window to one side revealing rocky walls that darkened toward night. She had recognized, or thought she recognized, the delineaments of High Fort, and assumed that he had reached the citadel and rested there preparatory to seeking her. He held a goblet, and a decanter sat upon a table at his side, and he had drunk deep as she watched. Then he had risen, his mouth curving in the smile she recalled so well, turning to greet whoever entered the room. He had set the goblet down and she had anticipated sight of Tepshen Lahl, or Brannoc, or Rycol. But then Kedryn had opened his arms and Wynett had gasped, a fisted hand flying to her mouth as Ashrivelle came into view, and into Kedryn’s arms. She could remember clearly that she had said. “No!” as her husband enfolded her sister in tender embrace, Ashrivelle’s head tilting back to spill blond tresses over her shoulders as her lips parted to receive Kedryn’s kiss. They had remained like that for long moments as Wynett’s heart drummed against her ribs and she fought panic, unable to tear her eyes away even when Ashrivelle moved out of the embrace and walked smiling into a bedchamber, Kedryn on her heels, his hands moving to the fastenings of his shirt. She had watched in horrified fascination as they disrobed, Ashrivelle standing before Kedryn in a wanton display that visibly aroused him. She had felt nausea roil in her stomach as Kedryn stepped toward her sister and they fell together onto the bed, their limbs entwined, their mouths exploring. She had closed her eyes as Kedryn pushed Ashrivelle onto her back and rolled between her legs, no longer able to watch.

  When she had opened her eyes again the vision had gone and she was trembling, tears coursing her cheeks. She had crouched beside the pool, willing herself to be calm, only dimly aware that she clutched the talisman as she prayed to the Lady that what she had seen be false.

  Yet, she thought now, had Eyrik not said the pool showed only the truth? So if what she had seen was false, then Eyrik lied. Or understood the pool less than he pretended. But if he had told the truth, then what she had seen was true: Kedryn and Ashrivelle had become lovers.

  Could that be possible? Certainly, she had suspected her sister harbored an affection for Kedryn. She had seen that growing during their sojourn in Andurel, but dismissed it as meaningless. Ashrivelle had been mightily disturbed by guilt and her gratitude for Kedryn’s concern had become a trivial enamoration that Kedryn himself had laughed off.

  Yet what if Kedryn believed her dead?

  Would he forget her so swiftly?

  Or did loss propel him into Ashrivelle’s arms? Did grief seek solace in passion?

  Doubts swirled in a maelstrom of confusion as Wynett sought to master her bewilderment. Truth or falsehood, which did the pool show? She folded both hands about the talisman, willing herself to calm, seeking a tranquillity that would enable her to properly assess what she had seen and what it meant if what she had seen was the truth, then hope was lost: Kedryn assumed her dead and found consolation with her sister. He did not come in search of her, and she was doomed, presumably, to remain here for . . . for how long? Eyrik had said time had no meaning in this place, so mayhap for all eternity.

  But what if those images had been untrue? Then—her mind reeled at the prospect, for it was in a way more frightening even than the alternative—perhaps Eyrik lied. And if Eyrik lied about the pool, then mayhap he lied about all else.

  Did Eyrik lie?

  And if he lied, to what end?

  If he was not what he seemed, then what was he?

  Only one answer seemed valid, and that was a thing that filled her with cold dread.

  She had been taken by the leviathan, and that monstrous beast was Ashar’s creature. Eyrik claimed to have rescued her from its, and Ashar’s, clutches, but what if the leviathan had brought her to him?

  Rank terror numbed Wynett’s mind as the answer presented itself: Eyrik was of Ashar’s following! She was a prisoner of the god.

  Trembling, she mounted a prayer to the Lady, the ugly knot of fear clenching tight within her suggesting that here her prayers might go unheard, that she rested in Ashar’s grip and not Kedryn, not the Lady, could hear her or save her.

  Her mouth was dry and she reached for the goblet, wetting lips that shuddered, the wine tasting sour now as revulsion curdled in her belly. She drank and fastened her hands tight again on the talisman. It was warm to the touch and she felt a vibration against her palms, a resonance that seemed to slowly work its way into her fingers, through her skin to the flesh and blood and bone beneath. Her trembling slowed and ceased, the dryness that, despite the wine, glued her lips, dissipated, and she felt that same calm she had experienced first on the walls of High Fort when Crania joined her mind in linkage with Kedryn’s, and then again as she and Kedryn stood in opposition to the Messenger. It filled her with tranquillity and strength, and she felt her panic slough off like a shed cloak.

  The talisman told her that Kedryn lived, of that she was certain beyond all doubt. And if her half of Kyrie’s stone reassured her of Kedryn’s life, then his must surely do the same: he must know she lived. And if he knew that, he would come seeking her. How, she was not sure, but that he would, she knew. Knew beyond any consideration of alternatives; knew with a certainty on which she would willingly stake her life.

  And if Kedryn knew that she lived, he would not dally with Ashrivelle, and that must mean the pool had lied!

  Wynett smiled, albeit grimly, at the thought. The pool had lied and therefore likely Eyrik lied. She could no more trust him than she could any longer trust the pool.

  She rose, crossing to the alcove where she splashed her face with cool water, then sat again, considering her situation.

  Whether Eyrik was Ashar’s minion, or the god himself, it appeared that for the moment at least he intended her no harm. Mayhap the talisman deterred him; perhaps the stone circumvented his powers. She remembered the leviathan threatening from the doleful mere of the underworld, driven back when Kedryn showed it his stone, and her plunge into the creature’s jaws. It had not killed her then, so perhaps it could not while she held the jewel. Perhaps Eyrik—or Ashar!—could not address physical force so long as she retained Kyrie’s talisman. It had stood against Taws’s magics, defeating the Messenger, so mayhap it could withstand his master.

  She nodded as one thought led to another, aware now of the power flowing from the stone into her, perhaps not power to overcome Eyrik, but certainly power enough to circumvent the bewilderment this place instilled, to overcome the despair that threatened.

  Kedryn was the Chosen One and the talisman he held imbued him with a strength that could overcome Ashar. Was that what lay behind the deceptions? Did Ashar set her out as bait to lure Kedryn here? Did the god seek to entrap them both in this separate world, this place where time was meaningless, where physical dimensions had no reality?

  Or did Eyrik hope with his blandishments, his cburtesies, all his gallantry, to separate her from her half of the stone? Was it his intent to divide the talismans? To utilize in some way she could not know the very power that now aided her? If that was his intention, he would find it thwarted, for no matter what ploys he might use she would not willingly allow the stone to be taken from her.

  Wynett sat lost in thought, determined now, not knowing what the next move in the weird game might be, but resolute in her faith. Kedryn had not deserted her—she would not believe that!—and would come seeking her. He would find her ready to aid him: she would not be seduced from that resolve.

  Still more than a little frightened, but calm now, able to contain her fear, she rose and undressed, drawing on a silken nightgown before snuffing the candles and entering the sleeping chamber. She crossed to a window, looking out toward the woodland. The threatened storm was closer now, the atmosphere static, the air so warm and moist she could almost taste it, feel it crawl upon her skin as if invisible insects scuttled there. No moon or stars showed, the sky seeming closer, as if it pressed down upon the land, weighted with its burden of rain. Then lightning danced over the woodlands on white stilted legs, jagged bolts lancing the distance between sky and earth, outlining timber tossed in a gale she could not hear. Through the gagging warmth of the humid air she caught the smell of burning, scorched timber at first, but then a sweeter, nauseating odor, as though flesh roasted in the blasts. Abruptly rain fell, suddenly as if aerial floodgates opened, water falling in a near-solid curtain, shortening her field of vision as swiftly as might a blindfold flung across her eyes. She could see nothing. Not the woods or the lawns, only the pervading gray.

  It should have freshened the air, but did not. Instead the humidity increased, the stench of decay mounting, and Wynett swung the window closed to shut out that reek. Better, she thought, a hot room than that stomach-turning odor, and at least the flowers set beside her bed should lend some lighter scent. But when she turned toward the bed she saw the flowers were wilted, drooping in the crystal vases, their petals fallen and rotted, brown with corruption.

  Had her mood remained as it had been when she retired this might well have sunk her deeper into misery, for the all- encompassing grayness seemed to isolate her within the chamber, emphasizing her loneliness, the dreary night conducive to despondency. Now, however, strengthened by contact with the talisman, she refused to give sway to that creeping hopelessness. Perhaps this was some device intended to sap her will: if so, it would fail. She gathered up the decaying blossoms and carried them to the outer chamber, tossing them into the hearth, then, fortified by the conviction that Kedryn sought her, and refusing to allow the logical conclusion of that conviction to daunt her, she climbed into bed. The sheets were no longer crisp and cool, but heavy, sticky, seeming to cling to her like cerements, and she cast them aside. Then, clutching the talisman in both hands, she composed herself for sleep.

  When slumber finally came it was troubled, a kaleidoscope of images disporting in her racing mind. She dreamed of Kedryn, seeing him embrace Ashrivelle, and of her sister in the arms of Hattim Sethiyan. She saw Ashrivelle and Hattim plot to slay Darr. She dreamed of Eyrik, who pointed to the pool and said, “It tells only the truth,” and of the Messenger, who opened his arms to her and said, “Come to me.” She saw the leviathan rise again from the Idre, and the Horde storm against the walls of High Fort. She descended again into the netherworld, finding herself on the shore, where the gray mist parted to reveal half-seen shapes that beckoned, urging her to join them.

  She awoke sweat-soaked, trembling as she fought the thing that clutched her and sought to drag her down until she opened her eyes to see the sheets wound about her lower limbs. She pushed them away and rose, throwing off her damp nightgown, telling herself that the dreams were no more than that—night phantoms. Nonetheless, they left a sour taint and she fell to her knees beside the bed, intoning a prayer that returned a measure of calm, the ritual driving away the lingering vestiges of nocturnal panic.

  Outside, rain still drummed, a steady cacophany, the panes of the windows blurred by the downpour, opaque and gray. Wynett rose and crossed to the embrasure, seeing a landscape emptied of perspective as though thick fog concealed the prospect. She turned from it and went to the alcove in the outer chamber, where she bathed. Returning to the wardrobes she noticed that the flowers she had deposited in the hearth were now withered, sere as if struck by winter’s chill. She ignored them, selecting the most modest gown available, the neck high, the sleeves long, its color a rusty maroon. She drew it on and began to brush her hair, wondering as she did so how she should approach Eyrik.

  To voice her suspicions seemed a dangerous course should they prove correct and she decided to pretend belief in his goodwill. Even now she was not absolutely sure he meant her harm, but she knew that she could no ionger trust him. At least, she reminded herself, not until she could know for certain what his ultimate intentions might be; and should they prove hostile, then to reveal her doubts too early would be to forfeit what little advantage she might have gained.

  Nervous, she rose from the dressing table and crossed to the door, opening the portal on a scene as miserable as that visible from the outer windows. The vinous ceiling held off the worst of the barrage that rattled upon the courtyard, transforming the atrium from its usual exotic splendor to an aqueous gloom, but heavy droplets fell with metronome regularity upon the stoa and the light was dim, depressing as she moved to the stairway and descended, one hand firm upon the talisman as she steeled herself to face Eyrik, unpleasantly aware that perhaps she dealt with a being of unimaginable power.

  Barris Edon was intrigued by the comings and goings that enlivened the otherwise dull duty of the watch. He did not crave excitement, having had sufficient of that when he stood on the walls of High Fort as the barbarians stormed the bastion, and was generally content to dispense his duty as lookout and take his turn on guard rounds with the uncomplaining acceptance of any regular soldier. Mostly there was little more to lookout duty than studying the fishing craft putting out from the town and shouting warning of the merchants bringing supplies to the citadel, but of late he found himself speculating on the king’s unexpected visit and equally unexpected departure into the Beltrevan. No explanation had been offered by Lord Rycol and none forthcoming from the officers Barris had questioned, whose knowledge, he suspected was as limited as his own.

  It had been a topic of barracks conversation for a while, but without answers to the questions asked, it had lost its flavor soon enough. Kedryn went to parley with the woodlanders was the generally agreed-upon solution, and because he had won himself that barbarian title he needed no escort. Most accepted that, but to Barris it seemed a trifle thin, especially with Kedryn married to Wynett, who was not a woman Barris would leave in favor of barbarian hospitality. And now there was another odd visit. This time, he saw from his vantage point atop the tower, from three Sisters of Kyrie, one of whom bore a most remarkable resemblance to Wynett.

  “A wagon approaches!” he bellowed. “A driver and three Sisters.”

  He watched the vehicle draw closer, experienced eyes recognizing weariness in the four horses hauling the carriage, noting the dust that grimed the sides, and wished that he might be down at the gate to overhear what was said, perhaps even put a question or two of his own. Instead, he could only study the wagon as it came up the glacis and halted before the wall, wondering what was going on as the captain of the watch shouted for the gates to be opened and the wagon passed from his line of sight.

  Wyxx halted inside the fortress and stared around, seeming unimpressed by the grandeur of the citadel. Beside him, Gerat took the hand offered by the captain and clambered from the seat, sighing as she straightened a back that after so long on the road felt more accustomed to sitting the wagon than treading firm ground.

  “I would speak with Lord Rycol,” she announced as Ashrivelle and Donella were helped down. “Inform him that Gerat, Paramount Sister of Estrevan, requests immediate audience.”

  “Sister!” The captain saluted, startled that the Paramount Sister herself should come to High Fort. “It shall be done.”

  “My thanks,” Gerat responded, then to her driver, “I am sure you can find stabling for the horses and quarters for yourself, friend Wyxx; and you have earned a rest.”

  Wyxx nodded and the captain issued instructions that he be escorted to the stables.

  “Donella, will you find the hospital,” Great suggested to the acolyte, “and I am sure our Sisters will find you a room.”

  A soldier was detailed to bring Donella to the quarters of the resident Sisters and the captain himself brought Gerat and Ashrivelle to Rycol.

  The chatelain was alone, studying manifests in a wood- paneled chamber overlooking the Idre. He rose as Gerat entered, bowing.

  “Sister Gerat, Princess Ashrivelle; greetings. Your presence is to do with Kedryn?”

  Gerat studied the hawk-faced soldier, liking him on the instant. She said, “It is, my Lord Rycol. He has already entered the Beltrevan?”

  Rycol heard the urgency in her voice and bit off the suggestion that they bathe and rest, talk later, instead ushering them to chairs, seeing them settled and pouring wine, his stem features evincing concern as he stood before them.

  “Some time past, Sister, in company of Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc. He informed me of your coming.”

  Gerat nodded. “Then by now he must be close to Drul’s Mound and we have no time to waste.”

  Rycol stared at her, brows raised in unspoken query.

  “You know what he attempts?” asked Gerat, and when Rycol nodded, “Then you must also know that he rides to gravest danger. Not only to himself, but to the Kingdoms. Should he fail-should Ashar succeed—then what you faced when the Messenger raised the Horde against you will be as nothing. Should Ashar suborn the power of the talismans he will be all-powerful.”

  “What would you have me do?” Rycol asked, bluntly.