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  The dark creature did not try to flee; it welcomed its return to the darkness it had sprung from and wanted only to taste sweet revenge. It seized the opportunity as Xith struggled to pounce. But it did not go after the magic-wielder; it went after Ayrian, trying to claim that which it felt was due, Ayrian’s soul. The blow it delivered was skillfully placed, up through the rib cage, direct to the beating heart, and as its icy razor-like claws sliced inward and upward, Ayrian countered, but it was too late. Both fell where they were as death sought to embrace them.

  The dark creature gripped Ayrian’s heart. Its success seemed assured and it cried in glee. But glee turned to despair and then to anguish as an unseen force ripped it back and away. As the dark kin faded from sight, Xith collapsed at Vilmos’ side. The raw magic of life itself caressed his outstretched hands momentarily before winking out. The battle was over, but what had it cost? Ayrian was near death. Xith was battered and bruised, his long dark cloak tattered and saturated with his own blood. And Vilmos lay still, trapped in his dreams, unaware that the first battle for his future and that of all the kingdoms of men and elves alike had been fought.

  The multiple wounds spoke silently of heroic deeds, for with each touch the raw energies of life had been sucked from Xith’s limbs, and yet he persisted and resisted the call of death. As for the vanquished foes, there were no hints or traces that said they ever existed or that the valiant two had defeated the many; the scene only revealed that a struggle had taken place and that while one was near death, lying in an ever expanding pool whose hue was reflected as ebony by the night sky, one lived.

  Xith knelt beside his fallen friend and heedless of his own weakening will, he began the healing and binding magic. His skills as a healer were limited; he could bind the smaller wounds and slow the bleeding of the largest; otherwise, he could not aid in the healing process. He considered the days and nights ahead with dread, through which he would have to maintain a vigilant watch if Ayrian were to survive.

  Pushing dark thoughts aside he focused; and as the last of the magic spilled from his hands, the last of his will slipping with it, he passed from consciousness for a time, not noticing the shrouded figure that approached him and touched a hand, palm down, to his brow, bidding him to find calm in his sleep. And sleep he did, seemingly outside of time.

  In the shadows of his mind, he thought he saw the arrival of day as a pink haze before his closed lids, but when he awoke it was dark and night reigned. The sky had cleared and bright stars shown down upon the campsite, outlining the silhouette of a shrouded figure that still stood over him, bent downward away from the starlit night so that deep shadows played across the hidden face.

  The figure beckoned Xith to sit and as the dark form turned to face the night sky, the shaman glimpsed the contours of the face. He could almost recognize the widely set brow and the distinctive curve of the nose, yet there was something peculiar about the mysterious figure. He leaned in for closer inspection and was taking note of the subtle changes when the figure suddenly vanished.

  A voice replaced the dark shape; a voice that startled Xith and seemed so distant. “Hello, Xith,” the voice playfully stated.

  “Does this remind you of something?” The voice became but a fading echo in Xith’s mind. He turned a full circle to find only empty air.

  He blamed his confusion on the battle, telling himself that the effects of the heavy battle still played on his mind. He was drained and tired. He wasn’t thinking clearly, and his body was too sore and slow to respond.

  “Can you stop my wind?” begged the other.

  The wind, which had been a gentle breeze a moment before, blew with tempest force. Xith did not falter in the face of it, nor did he try to stop it. He maintained his footing, standing motionless with his eyes closed, focusing his thoughts on his center, cleansing his mind, clearing his will. When he was ready he spoke, simply and eloquently, saying, “So the teacher becomes the pupil and the pupil becomes the teacher. Welcome home Wanderer!”

  “I am not he,” Vilmos said as he appeared before Xith.

  Xith was not startled by that fact, yet he was troubled by the changes that were occurring in Vilmos. “I must tend to Ayrian. He must be one of our company, for I have seen the path’s end without him.”

  “He will sleep,” was all Vilmos said, as he provoked the wind on.

  Xith returned to the spot where Ayrian lay. He touched a hand to the eagle lord’s forehead, bringing it down the line of the neck to the chest. “What have you done?” He paused then added, using the commanding nature of the Voice, “Release him at once; it is my wish and my will.”

  “He will sleep and when he awakes he will know nothing of the pain. The wounds will be gone; they are gone. Can you not see?”

  Xith moved toward Vilmos. It was clear that a struggle was taking place within or had already taken place and was troubling the boy’s thoughts. Xith wondered who had survived within Vilmos and of the boy’s intentions.

  “Who am I? Who am I? Do you really want to know?” asked Vilmos, laughing into the night sky. “I am he who survived. I am he who has overcome.” The strength faded from his words as he spoke, his voice cracked “I am he that is left.” The last was spoken in a whisper and the wind ceased, leaving the former teacher and the former pupil facing each other.

  Xith’s fears eased as he stared into now familiar eyes. He felt like the father whose son has just returned to him; and when boyish features returned to the stern face, the shaman wholeheartedly embraced Vilmos. “I must tend to Ayrian and then we must cross the desert and climb the mountain, a fitting beginning to a long journey along a dark road through hidden realms.”

  “I know,” Vilmos said, and the other voice whispered before it dwindled and died, “To the cloud city at last where we will join the dwellers of the sky.”

  Xith put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and nodded solemnly. The Wanderer, who had outlived the whole of his brethren and had witnessed the births and deaths of races and of nations, had come home at last, if only in the form of the boy before him. Vilmos would be bound forever and inexorably to memories of things as ancient as the wind and to the Wanderer, who was now a part of him.

  Unseen in the distance, Ky’el nodded satisfaction and returned via the orb to the City of the Sky.

  Chapter Three

  The nearby garrison at Imtal was the first stop of many and the days of journey afterward came and went uneventfully and unremarkably, giving Seth time to reflect. His thoughts drifted mostly to the past, only moving from his reveries to the present momentarily when Valam pointed out sites of interest; and then he would slip back into a near yet distant place.

  Valam for his part hoped they would see some action. Many of the men they traveled with were untested, green if truth be told, and a clean, decisive victory on the open road would go a long way toward easing the men’s worries about what was ahead—worries that Valam shared yet did not voice. But such hopes weren’t meant to be. Even the bandits who pillaged deep into the kingdom weren’t brazen enough to attack a group as large as the entourage he traveled with, and so the days slowly continued one after the other.

  Valam’s only pleasures were the lightly salted and heavily smoked venison in his saddlebag and the mead he shared with the men after evenfall. Without the venison to chew on during the day and the drink to ease him to sleep after a long day in the saddle, the journey would have seemed unbearably long.

  At times, Valam thought of the elf Galan and how she had sacrificed herself to save Seth. He wondered if he would have done the same for his sister Adrina or another. Somehow he didn’t think he would have—not that he was afraid to die, death he wasn’t afraid of—more that he wasn’t sure the trade off Galan had made was a wise one. Why her and not him? That was the question that gnawed at him during the day and troubled his dreams as he slept. It was an issue that had come between him and Seth to the detriment of their friendship, but it did not dissuade his resolve. He knew what was ahead; with
his own eyes he had seen war sweep the land, and just as important, he believed what he had seen. Now was a time for action and on that his resolve did not waver, despite the thinking of some on his father’s council—and perhaps his father himself. As he guided his black charger along the road, he struggled with the thought of what his betrayal would mean to Seth. Would Seth understand? Would he even be able to do what his father asked of him?

  At King’s Crossing where the East-West and North-South roads met, the group decided to bypass the lowland marshes of Fraddylwicke, electing to take the longer, more reliable route along the East-West road to the coast. Such a turning brought the group to the Barony of Klaive, where the baron and his sons gave the prince and men a great feast such as many of the men had never known. After Klaive, the group passed through the free cities at the mouth of River Trollbridge. The Trollbridge, unlike its sister in the North, the Krasnyj, which flowed only sporadically throughout the year and stretched nearly from sea to sea, flowed all year with but a single purpose: to inundate the Bottoms. The history of the Trollbridge and the Bottoms was older than that of Great Kingdom, stretching far into the past now unknown, but that history paled when compared to that of Mir and Veter, the free cities themselves. It was true that the Kingdom Alliance kept the cities free, but it was also true that the alliance had been bought with blood. There was a saying of old in the free cities: “of candor and liberty I know much, of justice and sincerity I know little.” For many it was true and the last words they spoke before their lives were bought with blood.

  A day after passing through the free cities, the group camped on the northern edge of the Belyj, a forest Valam knew better than the city of Imtal where he had grown up, a forest that was his own. And here he breathed easier than he had in days—in truth, since the journey had begun. Somehow the air in South Province felt better as he breathed it in. He couldn’t explain why, but perhaps it was the heavy scent of ash, elm and birch mixed in with the remnants of the salt spray from the distant West Deep. Earth and summer trees, salt and water, this was the smell of his home, the home he had made for himself over the past five years—years that had been lean and tough but years during which he had grown into the man he was today.

  From the Belyj, it was a few days’ journey to Quashan’ the capital of South Province and their destination, but before then, he aimed to test Seth and the bonds of their friendship. It was a thing he had promised himself that he would do, but now that the hour of the deed was nearing, he had doubts. Could he lessen the sting of what he must do? Seth had proven himself true in Quashan’ and in Imtal; his brethren had sacrificed everything to gain an audience with Valam’s father, King Andrew Alder; and the Queen Mother had opened everyone’s eyes to truth. And he himself had knelt before his father, promising his sword to the elves’ cause. He had promised Adrina that he would hold true to his word, and he had ridden from Imtal with a force ten thousand strong—soldiers, hired blades, and tradesmen all. So why did he have lingering doubts? Why had he made himself promise such a thing? And why did such a thing have to be?

  He pushed the thoughts from his mind, put his heels into his surefooted charger, and flew. One of the hunting dogs raced along beside him, with its tail held high, its gray fur ruffed up thick against the passing rain. The other dogs followed; and somewhere behind them in the long line of horses and men were Captain Vadan Evgej, the hunt master with his ready bow and horn, and Seth ahorse a dapple gray courser.

  Valam entered the sanctuary of the forest without hesitation, the canopy of the trees breaking the rainfall. Soon he could hear only the sound of hooves and paws and faintly, the rain. He remembered how he’d felt the first time he hunted: nervous as a raw recruit to the king’s guard, but eager for the hunt. Well, here’s to the hunt, he told himself as he turned the charger down an overgrown game trail. In the back of his mind, he could hear Father Jacob cursing because he, Prince of Great Kingdom and Lord of the South, was at the front of the hunting party and not safely in its midst; and he laughed aloud to himself, his voice echoing off the trees and mixing with the crunching of leaves.

  The air was cool and Valam cursed himself for not wearing a thicker cloak or discarding the wet one now clinging to his back. But he didn’t want to waste a moment; and as he broke into a clearing, he was glad he hadn’t waited for the others. He took up the bow from his shoulder, notched an arrow, and was ready to draw. A twelve-point stag was straight across from him in the clearing, looking on, seemingly unafraid.

  He touched the nock of the arrow, drew to his cheek in one swift movement but didn’t release. Instead he held the bowstring as he stared into the black eyes of the stag. It wasn’t often one met a Prince of Stags; and the stag, for his part, lifted his head high and stared back at Valam unafraid.

  For a time Valam waited, a prince of the city studying a worthy prince of the forest. He shifted his bow irritably to rub at his arms and told himself to release the bowstring but found that he could not. He glanced over his shoulder, looking back down the overgrown trail but found that the others hadn’t made the turn, or at least it didn’t seem so, for he was alone with the stag. Well, nearly so. The gray bitch was beside his charger; she didn’t make a move either.

  It was more habit than anything else that kept the bow in his hands and the string drawn. The thick muscles of his arms tensed and rippled, but such effort was not unknown to him. As a boy his father’s master trainer had made him hold poses for hours with a great sword, a pike, a battle ax, or whatever else was the weapon of choice that day. He had learned to endure the strain and the inevitable cramps. The master’s training had also helped him to learn to see what could otherwise go unseen.

  Taking in more of the clearing, he saw that not more than ten paces behind the stag was a large doe and a pair of summer fawns. The doe was afraid, for she seemed to be shivering as Valam set his eyes on her. He shivered too, but only from the cold. His rider’s cloak covered him to his boot tips; the cowl was pulled back, however, and the rain soaked him as it streamed through the opening in the forest canopy.

  He managed a weak smile. Of all the things he could have thought about right then, it was Adrina, his sister, who was probably warm and dry in her night chambers, who came to mind. He wondered what she would think of the irony of such a scene: himself with an arrow nocked and drawn, the stag, the doe and the fawns waiting.

  His eyes on the stag now seemed to be playing a trick on him, for instead of an animal, he saw a man clad in dapple gray almost the color of Seth’s courser. He blinked. In the stag’s place was Seth and beside him, the hunt master.

  “My lord prince,” Evgej called out to him, seeming ill at ease with Valam’s bow drawn and aimed at him. “We had thought you lost.”

  Valam lowered the bow and returned the arrow to the quiver. He decided to say nothing of the stag, and instead called back, “It is an honor to hunt with your hunters this evening, captain.”

  “The honor is all mine,” Captain Vadan Evgej called back, signaling to the others to cross the clearing to the prince.

  Seth touched Valam’s mind with a thought—the method he was using to teach Valam and others who were willing to listen—that their thoughts were open and thus readable. Valam responded instinctively by clouding his thoughts as he had been taught, effectively blocking his thoughts so they couldn’t be read. It was an automatic response as taught by Seth, but he also did not need any more confusion. For the past few days Seth’s presence had put him increasingly on edge whenever they were together. Worse, Seth seemed to be aware of it but hadn’t said anything about it.

  He was hoping Seth had not noticed his unease when Seth said, “This is my first hunt. I am not sure what to do.”

  Valam smiled but didn’t say anything immediately. He was focused on the men crossing the clearing. “The hunt is easy. You must only ride along. I do not expect you to make a kill. I know it is not your way.”

  “As do I,” Evgej said, his shiny wet leather jerkin dripping as he tu
rned in beside Valam.

  Valam studied the tall, lanky hunt master. Evgej didn’t wear a hat and the rain matted his fair hair. A bushy yellow beard hid most of his face, and a silver hunting horn was slung over his right shoulder. On his back was a longbow, a quiver with arrows fletched in white goose feathers, and a wine bag. By all appearances Evgej was early into his middle years, but Valam knew that the semblance of age was only an illusion. Evgej was no older than he, just over twenty.

  “We hunt for food as much as for sport,” Valam said turning to Seth.

  The elf pushed back the hood of his cloak; his blue eyes seemingly drank in Valam’s soul. If Valam hadn’t known Seth was elf kin, he might have thought him kin of Evgej. The hair and the lithe limbs said both were fair folk of the summer forest. Seth, however, seemed untouched by the rain. It was as if the rain danced around him. His deep burgundy cloak appeared to be dry and his medium-length hair was untouched, even that which hadn’t been protected by the cowl. “You need not worry about me. I understand the need for a hunt as much as any other.”

  “Shall we continue then, my lord?” Evgej asked. Valam nodded agreement. Evgej turned to his huntsmen, shouting, “Let the hunt continue!” as he directed their attentions back to the hunt. He sent his men out ahead to circle in front and flush the game toward the clearing. As they did so, he strung his finely crafted oaken longbow and waited. He indicated that Seth and Valam should ready themselves, yet only Valam notched an arrow and waited.