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  A vast weight was upon his shoulders as if he were the last pillar upon which all of Over-Earth rested. He was the Keeper of the Sky but what remained of the Sky? The Titans, eagle lords and dragons of the realm were all but gone. He was spent, the husk of what he had once been, and for a moment, all but fleeting, he thought of her. She was reborn as well, as was her fate. Unlike him, she would have no memories of days past until the very last when it ended in pain as it always did.

  “Why Adrynne?” he asked in a whisper. In his mind, he followed the War of Tears. He saw Stranth victorious in Pakchek. The forced march along the Path. The conquering of Oshio. The long drive along the Wish to Papiosse. A further victory turned to bitter dust along with the Defeat. “You would have been Queen over all.”

  Amir touched Noman’s shoulder. “You speak in whispers.”

  Noman tried to look up from the morass of black, gray and white spread out on the table before him; but before he could turn away, it became a spinning vortex that sought to suck him into the nothingness of shadow. He braced himself and fought frantically to push away as past days spun before eyes he could not close.

  “You are a Ruler of Right and Knight of the Blood. One of the Nine Sons of the Blood,” cried out the Father of Blood in the spinning vortex. “I am the Tenth Son of the Blood; you will do as commanded.”

  “Never!” Noman shouted as he cast the sticks aside, sweeping them from the table. Blood trickled from the corners of his eyes as he turned around, wildly flailing his arms.

  Amir steadied Noman. There was no alarm in his eyes, only concern, as he said, “The days of the Bloodrule are long gone. You are safe in the City of the Sky.”

  “It was as it had to be; it could not have been otherwise. I could not have done otherwise.”

  “There is no blame here, only truth,” Amir said, using Noman’s own words from past lessons.

  “You must go,” Noman said suddenly, pulling away from Amir. “Show them the path, but do not make the way an easy one.”

  When Amir disappeared from sight, Noman hastily retrieved the Destiny Sticks from the floor and rushed to his chambers. He found the staff where he had left it, nodded satisfaction, then put on his robe of colors. He tapped the staff against the floor, gripped the ancient carving at its crown and spoke the words of power, “Starod sil, otkry ot zemlya i pozhar, veter i vod!”

  He disappeared into shadow and reappeared outside a door in a long hallway. One side of the hallway was open, and looked out to an expansive garden. In the center of the garden was a fountain whose hot waters gushed from the earth and bubbled with sulphur. Far across the palace, a bell began to toll or at least it sounded like the tolling of a bell to Noman, as he turned about on his heel and went to the door.

  

  Not a word passed between them. They simply stared in awe at the boy who lay curled up on the now dry ground next to the warmth of a low, softly crackling fire. The time the Watcher had spent the whole of his life in search of was near and it seemed to him he had briefly become the controlled when he had always thought of himself as the controller.

  Privately, he berated himself for not attuning to his surroundings better; for now that he searched out the source of the evil, he found it was many days old and surprisingly strong—a doorway between the world of light and the world of darkness was open. Yet there were stronger forces at work than the unseen hands of evil, forces that beckoned and directed, forces that fed thoughts into their minds at levels that even the great shaman or the ancient lord could not fathom.

  As he stared into the darkness of the night, Ayrian gave thanks to Father Wind for the life that flowed through him. He embraced remembrance as well, for the touch of the wanderer had brought with it a lucid dream of the past. In the dream, the Eagle Clans reigned freely in the mountain valleys of the northern ranges once again. The Gray Clan held the longest range from two snowcaps east of Solstice Mountain to the shallow foothills midway into the westlands. He recalled the presence of men—in the dream his feathers were not so full of silver as they were now. The men came seeking passage to the North and it was the White Clan that showed them the way. As men moved north, they brought with them their ways and the ways of the eagle clans—and indeed the eagle lords themselves—slowly died.

  Memory faded. The night ended and the time of worship came. Ayrian began his morning prayers, his songs of praise to the creator and the preserver. It was this monotonic worship that roused Vilmos and awoke Xith to the sunrise. An energy loomed behind Vilmos’ eyes, but beyond that, he seemed himself again.

  Breakfast—oats and hardtack black bread—was prepared over the expiring coals of the fire. The first words to pass Vilmos’ lips were “I hate dried oats” to which Xith replied with a chuckle, “I know, I know.”

  Finishing his morning worship, Ayrian joined Vilmos and Xith beside the fire as they finished breakfast. He ate lightly, his strange eyes never straying far from the gray and white facade of the distant mountains. Hills lay at the foot of those mountains, long and rolling, and before them stretched many miles of the rough country of the Borderlands, yet he saw only the mountains, distant and proud. Momentarily he thought of the sacred city of the clouds, a place that even in the zenith of his people had been taboo, banned for all time.

  “We have a fair distance to travel, old friend, do we not?” Ayrian asked. Long ago, he had heard rumors from the White Clan, whose domain ran east from the territories of the Gray and included Solstice Mountain, that there were those among the Eagle Lords who had made the lofty ascent to the cold, dark summit that lay hidden from sight. It was said that a force as old as the earth itself walked the forbidden halls of the timeless city, a being that was kin to Great Father and Mother Earth, yet not of their direct lineage; and that this single being was the watch mark of all the maladies of the world who could not only see the paths of past, present and future but could also levy control to them, which was a skill the Father and Mother denied themselves.

  “Yes, a long way to go, old friend. Will you lead the way from the skies?”

  “Where are we going?” Vilmos asked.

  Xith looked to Ayrian and smiled. “You will know it when we come to it, I am sure. Come, the fire has faded and that is as good a sign as any that we should make our departure.”

  

  Noman knocked once, then opened the door. A large oak desk piled high with books and scrolls filled most of the room. Two chairs, arranged in front of the desk, were occupied as was the chair behind the desk. “I would speak with you alone, Keeper Martin,” Noman said, dismissing the other two without a second thought.

  Keeper Martin stood. “Sit, if you like,” he said, offering no deference. He stretched out a hand, indicating one of the chairs off to the side of the desk. He nodded to Keeper Q’yer and Keeper Parren as they left the room and closed the door behind them. “Are you hungry? Shall I order food?”

  “Gladly, some other time.”

  “As you say.”

  Noman looked to the door. “Can we—”

  Keeper Martin lifted a hand, pointed to something he had written on a piece of parchment. “Will you take some wine then?’

  “I would be pleased, thank you.”

  Keeper Martin took two glasses and a bottle of wine from the cabinet behind him. He poured one glass, passed the bottle and the other glass to Noman. Noman poured as Martin went to the other side of the room and brought a book from the far shelf.

  “Ah, the Book of the Peoples, that is the very one. Thank you.” A touch of his finger painted a reply, then he slipped the piece of parchment to Martin as he took the book.

  Martin drank his wine, tucking the parchment into his pocket as he did so. “Would you care to take a walk in the gardens?”

  “Perhaps another time.”

  “Another time then.”

  Noman finished his wine and left. He walked the length of the long hall, waiting until he was fully out of view from prying eyes before tapping his staff
to the ground. As he started to say the words of power, a hand gripped his and pulled him through a hidden doorway.

  “Master Keeper, you cannot leave, I need to know more,” Keeper Martin whispered.

  “It is what I know, all I know for now.”

  “It can’t be so, it can’t be.”

  “Martin Braddabaggon, you will know when it is time. You walk in Imsa’s footsteps. He knew and you will know as well. His blood is in you. You are a Braddabaggon and Head of the High Council of Keepers. You must go to Quashan’ at once.”

  “I cannot hope to achieve what my grand—”

  “—Alliances are made and broken; it is the way of things. If need be, seek out the Hand on the Wall, but only at your dire peril.”

  “The Hand on the Wall,” Martin replied.

  “Do not lose faith, Martin. It is as it is meant to be,” and so saying, Noman struck his staff against the ground and spoke the words “Starod sil, otkry ot zemlya i pozhar, veter i vod!” There was urgency in his actions and tone—he truly needed to gather strength from the ancient elements of earth, fire, water and air as the words of power entreated.

  Oh Adrynne, why? he asked himself as he disappeared into shadow.

  Chapter Five

  The rough lands in the border country drained their strength as they trudged day in and out through jagged, rock-strewn land that grew steadily rougher and wilder the farther the three traveled. It seemed that they had nothing to look forward to save the mountains marking the boundary to the northern lands inching closer and closer, seeming increasingly insurmountable. During the day the land was hot and parched; at night it was windswept and frigid. The few scrub trees that dotted the earth provided only meager fires, which only tempted them with warmth.

  The sound of animals scurrying about in the night was the most prevalent thing on Vilmos’ mind. Carrion beasts occupied the skies of the day, ever vigilant in their search for the end of life and the beginning of their next meal. It was these creatures that Vilmos imagined when the night came, edging closer and closer, standing over him when the frequent clouds brought shadows across his eyes.

  Thinking of carrion beasts helped him forget the memory of fighting his mirror-self. Each move he made, his other self made the same move, and the struggle was relentless. Where his two selves touched they merged, blending one into the other, sometimes twisting and bending one around the other, or warping and fusing so the lines between them blurred. Eventually, always, the lower torsos became one and it was only the upper bodies that were two.

  As they locked arms and pressed against each other, each trying to gain control over the other, the two chests fused, bringing a terrible pain. The white-hot pain moved from his navel to his neck. Afterward it was only the two heads facing each other, looking out from one body, that remained separate one from the other. Relief came for an instant when his two selves faced each other for a final time. As the two heads merged, they echoed one within the other until finally both selves acquiesced and struggled no more. A flood of memories followed, both ancient and new, and then, like now, Vilmos was left with what little he could grasp of it all.

  Xith walked beside Vilmos and called out, “You have that look again.”

  “I know I must,” Vilmos said truly, “But how can a boy be a man and a man be a boy? And if—”

  “It will all balance out. Much of what seems new will also seem familiar.”

  “Eh ho to we, to no wa,” Ayrian said on wing from above them, “You are reborn, as are all things.”

  “A to no ma, as are you,” Vilmos replied reflexively.

  Ayrian called out in what sounded to Vilmos like laughter as he thrust out with his great wings and raced ahead.

  The day passed, as did many others. Vilmos started to think that the Borderlands were aptly named. The land itself was unpredictable; at its southerly skirt lay jagged hills that seemed to flow up the western perimeter and meld into the rolling hills that formed its northerly bounds, yet in between were arid lands that went from flat, endless wastes strewn with stunted growths to odd, patchy lands that seemed to be heaved up from the darkest bowels of the earth itself. It was the latter that the trio traversed presently. Vilmos cringed and cursed as they passed yet another abysmal fissure around which were allayed great juttings of rock that looked as if the earth had spat them out.

  There was obvious tension in the air; Vilmos sensed it, though no one spoke of it. He recalled now the previous night’s discussion, one that the shaman and the eagle lord had not meant for him to hear. The two spoke briefly and in hushed tones of the Hunter Clan. Apparently, Ayrian had spotted a small group of them the day before; yet as far as he could tell they were not being pursued by the Hunter Clan.

  The following day brought Vilmos, Xith and Ayrian to the first of the foothills that gradually spread out toward the mountains, and only then did the perceived tension diminish. At first Vilmos greeted the arrival of the hills as a blessing, but this feeling of good fortune was rapidly replaced by indifference as nightfall came and found them still trekking through the hill country. The whole next day became a slow battle against a rolling land that seemed to have the upper hand. Vilmos’ feet were sore and blistered by the time they finally reached the first path that led up into the mountains.

  “Solstice Mountain,” Ayrian called out from above before winging his way up the mountain. The sense of jubilation faded when Xith told Vilmos that the trail before them only led up into the narrow gap that spread between the great range, and that they would travel only partially along its course before veering off into the heart of the mountain; yet as he touched the first of his footfalls to the stone of the mountain and with each step he took, it did seem that a veil was slowly being lifted from before his eyes.

  For Xith and Vilmos, the first few hundred yards of the climb were the easiest, yet from there the climb became a steadily increasing challenge. The ancient path up into the gap was worn by rains and washouts, and in several places it was as if a perpendicular rock wall had been thrown up in front of them. Ayrian used his great wings to scout the trail ahead and became instrumental in their successful progress many times.

  They climbed sharply up through the mountains long after the earth was swept with darkness; they climbed, finally stopping only when the path’s end lay before them. The moderate starlight that had guided them still gave them light as they set up a meager camp. Their level of anxiety was high as they thought of the events that tomorrow would bring. For that reason, sleep was elusive this night although it should have come easily after an exhausting day.

  A new day came with heavy cloud cover, which gradually thinned out as the day passed and hopes and expectations soared; somewhere aloft lay the mystical city of the clouds, and all they needed to do was attain the summit and the city would be theirs. The sun blazed high across the mountaintops and still they climbed though soon they would reach the fog layer shrouding the uppermost reaches of the peak, and from there they did not know how far the climb would be. They turned from the trail near the gap, following another smaller path that led upward into the foggy shroud. This path was like the one that continued through the gap and then split, becoming two other trails that slowly wound their way down through the mountains eventually taking its travelers into the northlands. It was a remnant of what had once been a large, well-worn trail. Now it consisted only of large clear patches followed by sparse stretches of ice that wound their way up the mountain at an angle that curved up and across its face. And slowly they progressed along it. Ayrian, with his great wings, helped the two make it through the many areas that would have been insurmountable otherwise. However, as they entered the foggy shroud that loomed over the whole of the lofty precipice like a great white blanket, the advantage disappeared, and a new arena where no one knew what was ahead lay before them.

  The ground beneath their feet began to gather larger amounts of water, feeling cool at first to tired, burning muscles, turning hard as it slowly turned to a frozen
sheet. The air thinned in tune with the freezing of the land, and pauses for reprieve became increasingly necessary. When they stopped, which was with growing frequency, Xith and Vilmos brought the cowls of their cloaks close against their faces and gathered numb hands into their lower folds, the cold only then seeming to bite into their skin. Ayrian was the sole member of the group that had little difficulty coping in the extremes; the cold had little effect on him, and to him the air seemed fresher at higher altitudes.

  Snow far more abundant than the ice replaced it; and just when the path was completely lost to their eyes, they were surprised to find that they were near the peak. Temporarily, the heavy weariness faded away; and they charged up the sharp rise toward the summit. Hearts and minds raced, for it seemed that the journey was finally at an end. Vilmos slipped and fell twice in the steep, quick ascent, nearly slamming his knee into a sharp rock one time, and the other nearly falling face first onto a similar dark, forbidding stone. The exhausted trio stood still and silent when at last they attained the mighty crown of Solstice Mountain—a jagged pinnacle of ice, snow, and rock gathered in a foggy shroud—unsure where to proceed, for here their combined knowledge ended. Xith had never been here before although he knew that this was where they must go, nor had Ayrian; and Vilmos was confused. Vilmos had said nothing during the latter stage of the climb; his mind had been filled with shadows and lurking specters from the distant past. He knew this place from somewhere yet couldn’t quite grasp how.