“Foolish,” Brannoc said. “Tepshen, I am sorry.”

  “And I,” murmured the kyo. “Ashar put words in my mouth.”

  Kedryn held their hands to the talisman a while longer, letting the jewel work its calming influence upon them. When he at last released his grip both men stood shame-faced, embarrassed smiles twitching their lips. Tepshen extended a hand, clasping Brannoc’s. "Kedryn is right,” he declared, “Ashar would set us to fighting one another.”

  “Aye,” Brannoc nodded, his smile growing wider. “Perchance because he fears to fight us himself.”

  Tepshen laughed at that and Brannoc added, “We are, after all, formidable.”

  Their march became a little more cheerful then, and when they halted again Kedryn persuaded them both to touch the talisman once more, for it appeared that the jewel had the ability to dispel the glamour that clearly possessed the desolate plain. He saw that the fissures had grown no wider and it occurred to him that the strange cracks represented a visible physical manifestation of their spiritual condition, broadening and deepening in measure of the differences between them. The next “morning” they repeated the ritual, and again during the “day” whenever tempers frayed, and the cracks remained static. Concomitantly they began to experience hunger and thirst again, consuming the last of their provisions when next they halted.

  It was a further problem but preferable, they felt, to the sullen animosity that had festered, and they ignored it, marching resolutely across the ashen plain, where the interstices now seemed to decrease in size, the ground once more resembling the bed of a dried-out river. Their halts, however, became more frequent as hunger took its toll, bodies inevitably weakening under the constant demand of the trek.

  After three “days” they grew lightheaded, their steps slowing, their tongues furred, lips parched for want of water. The chill that pervaded the plain became noticeable, a discomfort now as they burned stored body fat, and they wrapped their blankets around their shoulders as they progressed. In time they began to stagger, supporting one another as they stumbled forward, ignoring the scissures that cut the plain beneath their feet, growing ever smaller as hardship brought them closer together, relying on each other more than ever.

  Then the plain ended as abruptly as it had begun.

  At first Kedryn could not credit the evidence of his eyes, for what he saw had the aspect of a mirage, or some fantasy conjured by his hunger. He halted, swaying, and raised a hand to point ahead, his mouth at first too dry to form the words he sought, wondering if Ashar did, indeed, raise a phantasm to damn his hopes.

  “Is it real?”

  Brannoc’s voice was harsh, the question slurred as he forced it out. Tepshen stood beside him, his slanted eyes narrowed. “Can it be?” he husked.

  Kedryn stared, almost afraid to believe the reality, so hopeful was it.

  They stood at the edge of the dreary plain, the gray ground falling away before them as if cut with an adze. For twice a man’s height it dropped vertically, the scissures dark cuts against the scarp, then it gentled, descending in a gradually angled slope that was at first cinereous, but then shaded into the brown of healthy soil, becoming verdant with the bushes that grew lower down. Farther still below their vantage point the bushes gave way to trees, not the lofty timberland of the Beltrevan, but gentler growths, oak and ash and beech mingling to sweep onto level ground where meadows shone green beneath a golden sun, a winding river sparkling in the light, the sky ahead blue and rafted with billows of wind-blown cumulus. Close to the slope’s foot was a clearing, verdant among the darker shades of the woodland, and at its center stood a hold of pale sandstone, walled and turreted, smoke rising lazy from its chimneys, orchards and vegetable gardens running up to the walls, watered by the stream that spanned the clearing.

  “I do not know,” Kedryn mouthed, the words barely audible. “Let us find out.”

  Tepshen and Brannoc lowered him from the plain’s edge and he helped them both down, then all three stumbled and slid over the slant of the upper level, across the good, brown soil to the bushes. They halted there, stretched on the ground, panting, hope overcoming their exhaustion so that they rose and began a staggering descent to the trees.

  The air was warm, balmy, a zephyr stirring the foliage as they entered the timberline and heard birds singing, looking up to see the canescent sky of the plain merge with the blue that covered this haven of normality. A thrush stared down at them, head cocked to one side, beak trilling a warning that sounded to them like a welcome. They breathed in the smells of grass and woodland, laughing now, the morbid depression of the gray plain forgotten, heady with thoughts of water and food. A squirrel chattered from the bole of an oak and Kedryn chuckled at its protest, leading the way down through the trees toward the clearing.

  The stream curved along the rim of the woodlands, grass and thickets of blackberries marking its banks. The water was clear, splashing over stones that shone blue and gray and yellow in the sunlight, and they halted, staring longingly at the freshet. Then Kedryn threw himself down and began to drink.

  “Have care!” cautioned Tepshen throatily. “It may not be as it seems.”

  His warning was too late, for Kedryn was already swallowing, turning to smile and say, “It tastes as water should. And by the Lady, it is good!”

  Brannoc fell beside him, dunking his head before he drank, and then Tepshen, too, knelt and slaked his thirst.

  The water refreshed them, going some way also to filling their bellies, and they rose, moving to the edge of the tree line to study the hold.

  It seemed innocent enough. Indeed, it seemed out of place in the netherworld, for it bore a great resemblance to the holds of Tamur, the walls foursquare and set between the four solid towers that marked the comers, the merlons cut with large embrasures, the towers roofed with wood. A postern faced them, open onto a courtyard shadowed by the walls and they moved along the line of the trees, not yet quite ready to approach the place. No guards were visible between the crenellations of the ramparts and when they looked to the frontage of the keep they saw wide gates of solid timber banded with great metal bars standing open like the postern. Through the gates the courtyard was clearly visible, a wide, flagged area where figures in colorful costumes moved.

  “It seems peaceable enough,” Tepshen allowed.

  “Do we approach?” Brannoc wondered.

  “Without bows we have little other chance of eating,” Kedryn replied. “I think we must venture it.”

  “But wary,” cautioned Tepshen. “Normal though it seems, we are still within the realms of the netherworld.”

  Kedryn could smell the apples hanging from the well-tended trees that flanked one wall and their scent aroused pangs of hunger in his belly. ‘The ant-creatures were helpful enough,” he suggested. “Mayhap we shall find allies here, too.”

  "The ant-creatures delivered us to the domain of the spiders,” Tepshen reminded him. “Mayhap they knew what they did.”

  “It seems,” said Brannoc, “that we have a choice between seeking the hospitality of this hold and stealing apples. I say that we take the gamble.”

  “Aye.” Kedryn motioned to the wide track leading to the gates. It was rutted and marked with the imprints of numerous feet. “It would appear we have come upon some populated region, and to remain undetected must surely be difficult. Let us approach.”

  “So be it,” nodded Tepshen, “but with caution.”

  “As you say.”

  Kedryn stepped out from the trees, splashing across the stream with his comrades close behind. The cry of alarm he had anticipated failed to materialize and they reached the gates unchallenged, pausing within the shadow of the barbican.

  The courtyard had the appearance of some Tamurin hold, save that the folk he saw wore costumes more fanciful than any of the Kingdoms, though in all other aspects they seemed ordinary enough. Women in bright gowns of exotic cut, with ornate snoods retaining even more elaborate coiffures, mingled with men dressed in brilliant tunics and gaily patterned breeks. None bore arms and there were no soldiers among them, lending the yard a semblance to some market square or gala. A hay wain stood beside a well at the center of the yard, a minstrel perched on the seat, plucking a tune from a many-stringed instrument in accompaniment to his melodious baritone, and a knot of the brightly dressed folk stood listening attentively. More wandered the yard in conversation, or sat on wooden benches, supping from pewter tankards that were regularly refilled by servitors in costumes only marginally less fanciful than those worn by the drinkers.

  None saw the watching trio and after a while Kedryn stepped from the barbican’s shadow into the sunlight of the courtyard, instinctively studying their surroundings for sign of danger or routes of escape.

  The yard was a square contained by the curtains of the walls, a colonnaded walkway running around the lower level, broken in five places by the stone stairways that rose to the battlements and the postern. The walls were thick, containing the chambers of the hold, which sported balconies and windows from which more folk hung, calling to those below. None appeared to see the newcomers and Kedryn walked toward a group of four men lounging about a table, tankards in hands.

  They paid him no attention until he spoke, and then it was casual, as if the appearance of three gaunt men, travel-stained and weary, was of no great moment.

  “Good day,” he said, “might three strangers find welcome here?”

  The four men studied him with easy smiles, then -one, pale hair flowing in long curls from beneath a scarlet cap decorated with an emerald feather, shrugged shoulders decked in yellow and black and said, “Of course. Are we not all strangers at one time or another?”

  A second, legs clad in harlequin breeks of red and white thrust out, motioned with his tankard and said, “Sit, strangers. Join us in a flask of this good ale.”

  They shifted on their benches, making room, and the three sat, still wary, as tankards brimming with foam were brought. They sipped cautiously, unwilling to let the ale take possession of their senses.

  “Why do you bear arms?” inquired a man dressed in a cerulean tunic cut with slashes of jade, his breeks crimson and gold.

  “It is our custom,” Kedryn replied, wondering why they laughed at his response.

  “It was our custom once, Jerrold,” remarked another, his dress a riot of green, scarlet, yellow, silver, and sable. “Do you not remember?”

  “That was so long ago,” smiled Jerrold, “and it has been so long since any found their way here.”

  “Where is here?” asked Kedryn.

  “Here?” Jerrold’s smile grew broader, as though the question occasioned considerable amusement. “Why, here is Lord Taron’s hold; the finest in all Magoria.”

  “Magoria?” frowned Kedryn.

  “You are confused,” said the man in the scarlet cap, his feather nodding as his head moved. “From whence do you come? Are you fallen heroes? Or was your journey otherwise?”

  Kedryn was uncertain what he meant, but he smiled politely and replied, “We have come from the Beltrevan. We found entry to the netherworld and trekked across a prairie of orange grass, through mountains filled with vicious spiders, and latterly across the gray plain that surmounts the slope above this keep.”

  “The Plain of Desolation,” the man nodded, his feather wagging furiously. “Few survive that journey. Fewer still who travel in company.”

  “It was arduous,” Kedryn agreed, “and it has left us mightily hungry.”

  “Forgive us!” The feather shook as though tossed in a storm. “You will seek sustenance.”

  “And answers,” Kedryn said.

  “Lord Taron will doubtless provide both,” the man declared, and clapped his hands to summon a servant. “Take these wayfarers to Lord Taron on the instant. Inform him that Marul of Bolden Hold sends them.”

  “My Lords?” The servant bowed decorously. “Will you accompany me?”

  “Find us, after,” suggested Marul as they rose, “and we shall share a tankard or two.”

  “My thanks,” Kedryn nodded, and turned to follow the waiting servant.

  Tepshen and Brannoc fell into step beside him and they crossed the courtyard to a wide door set beneath the colonnades. Their passage brought them close to many of the strollers and past the group listening to the minstrel, but it was as if they were invisible, for few heads turned at their passing and those that did granted them no more attention than might have been given to an insect buzzing past on the warm breeze.

  They paused at the door, on which the servant knocked before throwing it open to lead them into a spacious chamber with windows at both ends. “Lord Taron,” he announced, “Marul of Bolden Hold sends you three wayfarers.”

  With that he bowed and quit the room, leaving them alone with Taron.

  The chamber was sunny, the windows at the farther end spilling light over a solar partially screened by folding panels of carved red-golden wood and raised three steps above the main room.

  A deep voice said, “Come forward, wayfarers,” and they crossed the hall. It was floored with polished timber, the walls paneled and hung with tapestries, a great hearth to one side, long tables and benches set in rows as if in readiness for a banquet. They mounted the steps and found themselves in a semicircular chamber, deep embrasures occupying most of the walls, the floor the same rich wood as the main hall, though spread with luxurious carpets. Five deep chairs, high-backed and studded with brass, were arranged about a low table on which stood a silver decanter and four glasses. The fifth was held by the man seated facing them.

  He was small and bald, his pate gleaming yellow in the sunlight, his round face hairless save for a short scalplock and the long mustache that trailed waxed ends far past his jaw, dressed in a gown of black on which stars and crescent moons glinted silver, drawn in at his waist by a belt of silver links that stretched it tight over the mound of his paunch. His feet, slippered in black velvet, were propped on a stool, and he made no move to rise, instead motioning them to sit.

  They took the three chairs facing him, Kedryn first removing Drul’s glaive from his back.

  “You carry Drul’s blade,” Taron remarked without preamble. “I presume, therefore, that old ghost of war granted you entry.”

  “He did,” Kedryn nodded, curbing the impulse to ply the small man with the questions that boiled on his lips.

  “And you have crossed the Desolate Plain. Few succeed in that. Few even reach it! I must assume you heroes as you have obviously survived the kingdom of the arana.” He clapped his hands, beaming at them. “And who are you, brave strangers?”

  Kedryn gave introduction and Taron nodded thoughtfully.

  “You are hungry?” When Kedryn replied in the affirmative he clapped his hands once, summoning a servant to whom he issued instructions that food be set out in the hall. “Meanwhile some wine?” he suggested. “And questions, I imagine. Mayhap I can both answer and save time—I am Taron, Lord of this hold and overlord of Magoria.”

  He paused, bending forward to fill three goblets with a ruby vintage, sipping his own before he continued, “Magoria is one of the many realms of the netherworld, and kinder—as you have doubtless noticed—than others.

  “Perchance you thought the netherworld a place of desolation and misery, but it is not so. At least, not in all aspects. Many are, indeed, hostile, but others less so, and a few as delightful as my fair domain. Likely, you thought Ashar lord of all beyond Drul’s gate, but neither is that so—rather, a balance exists, established by a power greater than Ashar or the one whose stone I see you wear about your neck, and whose cantrips I perceive protect your companions.” He raised a hand as Kedryn opened his mouth to voice a question, stilling it unasked. “There are few in the realms of humankind who understand this, but even gods are bound by laws, by checks and balances that hold them to a measure of order incomprehensible to men. It is simpler that men believe in the basic concepts of good and evil—in Ashar and the Lady, both of whom are real, but themselves contained within the cosmic balance.

  “Ergo, whilst Ashar’s strength waxes he controls greater parts of this world you have entered, but havens still exist and Magoria is one of them. Should Ashar be slain,” small eyes that Kedryn noticed were yellow as a cat’s flickered over Drul’s glaive as he said this, “then more of the netherworld must become benign. Now I see that food is ready—come, eat, and I shall talk whilst you revive yourselves.”

  He rose, gathering the trailing hem of his gown and led die way from die solar to the hall, where a small feast was prepared, servants standing in readiness. Kedryn glanced at Tepshen, who shrugged slightly, and at Brannoc, who grinned quizzically, and followed the dumpy little man to the table.

  The food was excellent, trout grilled with almonds and bacon, roasted lamb garnished with rosemary, a soup of leeks, succulent vegetables, rosy apples, cheese, white bread still warm from the ovens, and they ate heartily, luxuriating in the comfort after the deprivation of the Desolate Plain.

  While they ate Taron resumed his discourse.

  “It is, of course, Ashar’s desire to rule all the netherworld, and to extend his sovereignty over your world. The Lady works to prevent this dominion, and I imagine that is at least one of the reasons you are come here. The other, of course, is to save your bride.”

  “You know of Wynett?” Kedryn gasped.

  Taron nodded. “Magoria maintains a degree of contact with the other realms, and thus I learnt that Ashar had sent his creature forth and that it returned with a woman wed to the man Estrevan calls the Chosen One. Now you come, wearing that talisman and carrying Drul’s sword—who else might you be?”

  Kedryn wiped his mouth with a napkin of soft lawn. “Are you able to guide us to Wynett?”

  “It is possible,” smiled Taron, “but do you think to overcome Ashar himself?”

  “I must first seek out a creature called Taziel,” Kedryn admitted.

  “And what would you have Taziel do?” asked Taron.