“It was easy then, with what I learnt, to send the leviathan into your world. I saw that if it took you Kedryn would follow, and so he has.” He chuckled, displaying white teeth. “Much of what you saw in the pool was true. It amused me to use your own weakness against you: love renders you transparent. With your part of the talisman in my domain—and your belief that I sought to aid you!—it was not difficult to establish links. Your sister does, indeed, harbor feelings for Kedryn. Some aftermath of the love potion Taws fed her, mayhap, but still a most available lever. I created images to disturb you. And how well I succeeded! You doubted your husband, did you not? You thought him locked in Ashrivelle’s arms—your love betrayed you!”

  He paused, tittering. Wynett offered no response, better able now that he took human form to think clearly, not willing to tell him he was wrong—that she had not doubted Kedryn—for it seemed his pride was a potential weakness, while her love was a strength.

  “After that,” he continued, “it was easy to assail your hopes, to damp your spirit until I seemed your only ally. Meanwhile, Kedryn had entered the netherworld. As hef-Alador he had the right to demand Drul’s glaive as, I suspect, the blue-robed whores you call Sisters told him he must. You see, that blade was forged for my purpose and thus may be used against me. Save now, I have its equal.” He spun the sword he had created between his palms, admiring the flicker of light on the crimson blade. “I might easily have destroyed Kedryn once he entered my domain, but that did not serve my purpose so well as to lure him ever deeper. Oh, there were a few of my creatures unable to contain their hatred of living flesh that sought to slay him, but he survived them thanks to his talisman and now approaches, thinking to destroy me. Me!”

  Wynett stared as his eyes bulged, the gold-flecks whirling. His mouth was open and saliva glistened on his lips, flecking his shirt. He shook his head in prideful disbelief. “Why did you let him live?” she asked, glorying in this little piece of knowledge.

  “Because the talisman must be freely given,” he answered. “As you gave yours to me. That, or be taken by its match. Which I now have.”

  He stroked the sword as might a lover caress his mistress. Wynett watched him, wondering how she might aid Kedryn. “So he has the sword,” she said. “And has joined it with the talisman.”

  Ashar’s smile faded, his handsome features suddenly ugly as he nodded curtly. “He has,” he agreed. “There was a price I did not think he would pay, for he holds his comrades too dear.”

  “His comrades?” Wynett prompted, seeking to learn as much as she could, thinking that knowledge was a weapon she might use against him.

  “He came with the two you saw in the pool,” came the answer; dismissive. “The one called Tepshen Lahl and another called Brannoc. The latter paid with his life.”

  Something in his tone told her that he was not pleased with this outcome and she forced down the rush of grief she felt for Brannoc as she asked, “How so?”

  ‘The . . . enthusiasm ... of one of my followers tainted him,” Ashar grunted. “He became a were-thing and chose death that my smith fix stone to sword.”

  “Kedryn will not relinquish either,” she said.

  “You think not?” the smile returned. “Be you right, then he is not so weak as I suppose.”

  His tone was malicious and Wynett felt a fresh flood of fear as he eyed her, his gaze speculative. “He is strong,” she said, fighting the apprehension that fluttered nervously behind her self-imposed calm.

  “You are his weakness,” Ashar returned. “Do you believe he will sacrifice you?”

  Wynett was neither certain of the answer nor the response she should give. Were the situation reversed could she sacrifice Kedryn, even for the sake of the Kingdoms? She did not know, and in a way was grateful that so awful a decision was Kedryn’s and not hers. She forced composure on her features and a steadiness she did not feel on her voice as she answered, “Kedryn is the Chosen One.”

  Ashar bellowed reeking laughter, his form flickering, shifting, becoming wraithlike, as if coiling smoke sat upon the throne, then resumed the form of Eyrik.

  “He is also a man in love.”

  Gross contempt rang in his voice and it occurred to her then that victory alone was not enough for this malign deity. Conquest was his ultimate aim, but the simple assertion of his power was insufficient: his ego demanded more than fleshly dominance. It seemed he had a need to debase his foes, to force upon them the full realization of his cunning, to grind then- faces in the bitter despair of vanquishment. More than just Kedryn’s defeat, he sought to undermine the very beliefs that made his enemy strong. He reveled in the notion of betrayal as eagerly as he lusted for victory.

  “He loves the Kingdoms and the Lady as much,” she said.

  Did doubt flash briefly in the gold-flecked eyes? She could not be sure, only that he smiled an ugly smile and- said, “We shall see.”

  Abruptly, he rose from the throne, taking the great sword by its blade, seizing her wrist with his free hand. There was a strength in him she could not resist and she allowed him to drag her across the red-lit hall, out through the marbled chamber to the courtyard.

  The interior of the palace was changed, as if, with the need for deception gone, he allowed it to revert to its natural condition. Now gloomy walls of green-slimed gray stone rose about her, the sky above ruddy as if lit by vast fires. Jasmine and roses and magnolia no longer climbed about colonnades, filling the atrium with their scent, but were replaced with ugly weeds, leprously verdant and emanating a sour odor. Dull black stone flagged the yard and the fountain was become a pit of fire jetting a column of incandescent flame high into the noxious air. Ashar gestured and the flame died, revealing a pillar of seared gray metal. He dragged her toward the pile and she saw that it rose from a plinth, chains dangling from its upper level. He stepped onto the plinth, hauling her behind, and forced her arm up, snapping a manacle about her wrist. He chained her other arm and she was left standing, hands upraised. Ashar stepped back, setting down the sword as he surveyed his handiwork.

  “I believe,” he said, smiling lasciviously, “that some further distraction might be amusing.”

  Wynett cried out then, as he took the neckline of her gown and tore it from her. He chuckled and ripped away her undergarments so that she stood naked, her erect posture thrusting out her breasts. Ashar studied her speculatively, his form changing again so that she gazed, close to tears, at the misshapen thing that appeared the physical embodiment of his spiritual deformity. He fondled the huge phallus jutting toward her suggestively, the forked tongue lashing over his fleshy lips.

  “Mayhap later,” he said softly, “after you have seen Kedryn slain I shall offer you a choice. You may give yourself to me, or I shall take you. Think on it, Wynett—you may yet live.”

  “Never,” she moaned and he chuckled, taking Eyrik’s shape again, and retrieved the sword, swinging it to his broad shoulder as he turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the dismal yard.

  She struggled against the chains but they were firm and she could neither tear them loose nor work her hands through the hoops of the manacles. She gave up the effort as she felt her skin chafe and blood ooze down her arms. Tears clouded her vision and she blinked them away, concentrating on the need to remain calm, to think clearly, that she might, should the Lady grant her so great a boon, aid Kedryn in some way when he came.

  How she might do that she was not sure and she forced herself to review all that Ashar had said. He was not confident of victory, of that she felt certain, for why else should he prepare to offer Kedryn a choice between willing surrender of the talisman and combat? Nor, whatever Kedryn decided, did the god intend to honor any bargain. “After you have seen Kedryn slain,” he had said. Therefore, no matter what blandishments he offered, no matter what fate should befall her, Kedryn must not relinquish his sword. He must at all costs fight Ashar; and with the Lady’s blessing slay him.

  She could not think beyond that and she closed her eyes, murmuring a heartfelt prayer to Kyrie that Kedryn see her life did not matter, only the defeat of Ashar.

  Kedryn and Tepshen emerged from the tunnel to find themselves on a windswept plateau overlooking a narrow valley of dismal prospect. There was an air of miserable desolation about the vista, a sense of palpable menace that hung threateningly on the very wind that scoured the landscape. Behind them, the stone bulked gray and gloomy against the sky, that red as though underlit by the flames gouting from the farther reaches of the mountains, stretching like a great bloody curtain to the hill-pocked horizons. Below, trees thrust skeletal limbs denuded of foliage in attitudes of supplication, seeming to beg forgiveness of the draft, spreading over sere ground to a wide river that curved steel-gray about an islet of black rock. Jagged stone thrust fanglike, tortured shapes up from the jet mound, forbidding as the jaws of some massive beast, conforming at the central point to a vague approximation of a castle. It was clearly no human construct, for no windows showed in the ebon surfaces and the towers were spires of smooth rock, the walls like melted slag spewed from a molten core. One entrance was visible, a great, dark portal with opened, anticipatory gates, that faced a narrow bridge spanning the ominous stream.

  Kedryn sniffed the wind, his nostrils crinkling in distaste as it brought the odors of corruption, and turned to his companion.

  “I think we have found Ashar’s hold.”

  “Aye.” Tepshen’s luteous features were grim. “And likely he awaits our coming.”

  “Then let us not disappoint him,” Kedryn declared.

  Tepshen studied his face for a moment, then smiled gravely and took his hand in an unusual display of emotion.

  “Whatever fate befall us now, I am proud of you. You are a true warrior.”

  His sinewy hand squeezed tight and Kedryn returned the pressure, smiling no less gravely.

  “You honor me, my friend. I could ask no better comrade on this quest.”

  Tepshen nodded and murmured, “Save Brannoc, perchance. ”

  “That is another debt we shall settle,” Kedryn answered, and they began to climb down through the jumbled stones toward the grim, gray trees.

  The wind grew stronger as they descended, feculent as the stench of a midden, rattling the withered branches so that the cadaverous trees seemed to reach toward them, seeking to ensnare them. They stood gaunt, reminding Kedryn of the frameworks of the blood eagle, that impression heightened by the charnel reek that mingled with the fecal stench as they drew closer to the river. Thorny limbs seemed to clutch at him and he drew Drul’s glaive, ready to lop off any that took life and sought to steal his. The ground beneath his feet was gray and parched as mummified skin, striated with tiny cracks that seemed to sigh as he stepped upon them, the combination of clattering branches and plangent ground soul-numbingly miserable, the wind an offense that threatened to void his stomach. He fought against the sensual assault, marching resolutely onward, Tepshen at his side, intent on reaching the weird keep that bulked ever larger before them.

  They reached the river, pausing at the bridge. It seemed too fragile to sustain their weight, its span held on either bank by massy pillars of basalt, graven with indecipherable runes, the footway stretching out unsupported over the steely race that frothed against the sheer banks, lashing angrily at the desolate soil.

  “There is no other way,” Tepshen remarked, and set out across the span.

  Kedryn hurried to follow, aware that the bridge swayed as they crossed it, each step setting its planks to vibrating, the retaining walls shuddering under his hand. It seemed the structure must fall apart beneath them, spilling them into the flood below, and Kedryn felt vertigo assail him as he speeded his pace, trotting behind the kyo.

  They halted again when they reached the farther bank, staring up at the hold that now loomed vast above them. A broad roadway of seamless jet ran up to the open gates, the portal glowing red as if fire burned within the walls, those sheer and smooth, seamless as the road, stone run as if poured from a melting pot, evil a presence tangible as the stench of the wind that Kedryn now realized wafted from that door. He set both hands about the hilt of his sword and stepped past

  Tepshen, taking the lead as they approached Ashar’s stronghold.

  The wind was fierce as they entered the keep, sighing down a long, low corridor filled with the mephitic frowst. It threatened to numb their senses as they paced the doleful tunnel, their blades held battle-ready, anticipating momentary attack in the gloomy darkness.

  Then the tunnel gave way to a yard as forbidding as the hold’s exterior, shadowy beneath the jut of sweeping walls, encased in a tangled spread of rank weeds from which came the fetor. Kedryn ignored it now, for at the center of the yard stood a column surrounded by a low wall, and chained to that column was Wynett.

  He was shocked to see her naked even as his heart lurched with joy as the steady rise and fall of her breasts told him she lived. He gazed upon the sweet perfection of her features and called her name as he ran to free her.

  Her head turned then, her clear blue eyes opening wide as she saw him start toward her, and he saw fear writ stark, her mouth opening to cry a warning.

  “Kedryn, no! Ward yourself!”

  He halted, Drul’s glaive raised, spinning in a circle, his eyes scanning the shadowy depths of the weed-hung yard.

  And gaped as he saw a tall, brown-haired man emerge from the tangles at the far side of the court. His senses reeled as he studied the sternly handsome face, the set of the broad shoulders, for in them he saw his father as Bedyr had been in his youth, and that similarity, that recognition, was weirdly disorientating. He hesitated, sword point lowering as the man stepped out onto the black flagstones. He held a sword akin to Drul’s, but the blade was crimson as if soaked in blood, and he smiled.

  Wynett cried, “He is Ashar, Kedryn! Do not trust him.”

  “Kill him,” murmured Tepshen, close at his back. “I shall look to Wynett.”

  Kedryn took a pace forward, matched by the brown-haired man, still smiling, each movement an echo of Kedryn’s.

  “So,” he called, “you are the Chosen One. Kedryn Caitin! You have dared much to come here.”

  “I will dare more,” Kedryn responded, feeling the glaive tremble in his grip, the talisman mounted on the pommel glowing brighter, its radiance gradually banishing the dull shadows, pulsating, filling him with a dreadful purpose.

  “No doubt,” Ashar returned, and his voice was Bedyr’s, “but will you sacrifice your wife?”

  Kedryn halted, aware that Tepshen moved a short distance away, sidling toward the column.

  “I offer you a bargain,” Ashar said, and Wynett screamed, “Do not listen to him! He intends to slay you!”

  Ashar gestured and for an instant fire spurted around Wynett. Kedryn roared, “No!” and the flames died. Ashar said, “I will give you the woman for that sword. It is, after all, rightfully mine.”

  “He lies,” Wynett cried. “He will take the sword and slay you.”

  “Would you see her die?” asked Ashar, gesturing again so that a fresh gout of fire sprang upward.

  Kedryn stared at him. From the corner of his eye he saw Tepshen halt, realizing that the kyo had reached a point where the column must block him from the god’s sight.

  “He is afraid of you,” Wynett screamed.

  Tepshen began to move cautiously toward the pillar. Kedryn said, “You are a god of lies, why should I trust you?”

  “Because you love her,” Ashar said, “and because you will see her die horribly if you refuse.”

  Kedryn paused, aghast at the alternatives. Ashar smiled, and he was Bedyr, standing beaming at his son. “Give me the sword,” he urged, “and you shall go free with your wife.”

  Kedryn shook his head, not in refusal, but bafflement. It seemed he stood before his father and his soul rebelled at the notion of striking Bedyr, rebelled at the notion of condemning Wynett to death. Did the Lady ask this of him? Was he capable of so awful a choice?

  “Give me the sword,” repeated Bedyr. “Do you not trust me? Am I not your father?”

  Gerat rose from the stool, stepping from beneath the awning of the tent into the sunlight. Rycol moved to join her, but she motioned him back, lifting her arms as her eyes closed and her lips moved to utter a single word: “Now.”

  The chatelain halted as she gasped, her body trembling, shaking as through gripped by some terrible force. It seemed for an instant that she was wreathed in blue flame, surrounded by a corona that concentrated about her hands and flashed, driving out and away, streaking like lightning over the startled faces of his soldiery, lancing over the treetops below to strike deep into the woodlands of the Beltrevan.

  Kedryn felt the power flood through him. It was cleansing, a cool, cauterizing fire that banished doubt. He saw the nimbus emanating from his glaive burn fiercer, felt the sword shudder in his grip, compelling him forward. He saw Bedyr’s form dissolve, replaced by that of the tall, brown-haired man, then by something else, something hideous that snarled and sprang forward on cloven hooves, lips drawn back from lupine fangs between which a forked tongue lashed. He was possessed by that certainty that had gripped him when he faced Niloc Yarrum, by the surety that had sustained him as he faced Taws, by the implacable sense of rectitude that had filled him as he held the talisman atop the roofs of the White Palace. He saw Ashar in all the god’s malignant ugliness and knew that he faced a liar, a foul thing that held only the antithesis of truth.

  “For Wynett!” he roared. “For the Lady and the Kingdoms!” And before Ashar had time to gesture again, before the flames could lick once more, one final time, about Wynett, Kedryn gestured with the sword, not knowing from whence came the cantrip, or how he knew to work it, only that incalculable strength filled him as blue light flashed, encompassing his beloved, wreathing her in the Lady’s protective light. He barked angry laughter as Ashar cursed and returned his blade to the attack stance as his feet carried him swift across the yard, the glaive swinging in a furious arc at the god’s misshapen skull.