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  “Prince Valam?” called out Van’te after him, “Could you wait a moment please.”

  Prince Valam detected the tone of Van’te’s voice and grew concerned.

  “What is wrong?”

  The chancellor quickly calculated all the ways he could best explain to Valam the gravity of the situation. He thought of just telling him bluntly what Martin had said although he knew Valam well enough to know that he had to put the matter delicately. The words he chose never reached his lips. Within the upturned, waiting eyes, he saw a thing he would relish for years to come, the impatient longing of youth.

  “Prince Valam, do not forget to check the ships in port.”

  Valam promised he would not and raced after the others.

  “Prince Valam?” called out the chancellor again, as he stepped into the hall.

  “Yes,” came the distant response.

  Van’te hesitated again.

  “Did I tell you Isador is returning to Imtal Palace? Which means the—”

  “—wedding plans are off,” finished Valam happily, ending his retreat.

  “Yes, she has plans for another now.”

  “Adrina?” asked Valam turning to face the chancellor, staring down the long hall.

  “So it would seem,” cast back the chancellor.

  Men were sent to gather equipment and food stores and to load the ships. Confusion, which took a concerted effort to quell, spread throughout the camp. All were eager to leave; however, they had not thought it would be so soon. Once they were on the ships there would be no turning back.

  Captain Cagan drank in the night air from the sea. He had departed with the first detachment sent to the coast. It had been so long since he had sailed. He longed to be back on the open water. Thinking of the sea reminded him of home, which seemed suddenly closer. He had come to know these people and respect their ways. He counted them as friends. Still, there was no substitute for his own home.

  “Captain Cagan, thinking of home?” came the voice from the shore.

  “Yes, Brother Seth, I am.” Cagan shouted back.

  “Me too!” intoned Seth quietly, “Me too.”

  Seth jumped into one of the long boats that were shuttling back and forth from the shore.

  “She is a fine ship, Captain Cagan. Looks almost like—” shouted Seth as he climbed to the low deck.

  “My old ship. Yes. A friend at the shipyard wanted to know how we designed our ships. I drew him up some diagrams. Our ships are not much different. The hull shapes are almost identical.”

  Seth shot a quick salutation to the oarsman and then yawned a heavy, stretching yawn. The making of ships didn’t interest him as it did Cagan, yet he wouldn’t interrupt; his friend’s love for ships was clear. Cagan babbled on for awhile with Seth adding little to the conversation. He stared out across the black waters, looking to a distant shore. Thoughts of home filled his mind.

  “I knew it! I knew I would find you two here,” said Valam as he and Evgej emerged from the opposite side of the deck.

  “All clear,” he shouted down to the oarsman.

  “All clear, cast off,” was the return response.

  “All should be set soon; isn’t this fantastic?”

  Seth nodded and Cagan returned to his talk of ships. Valam smiled as he crossed to Seth, joining him in his fixed stare out across the waters. He absorbed the peacefulness of the waves and the setting of the sun, a red-orange ball of fire one-third submerged beneath the dark waters.

  Valam didn’t invalidate the grand illusion with clear thoughts. He relaxed for a moment, allowing his mind to wander freely. “Check the ships in port indeed,” he muttered to himself, wondering what the old chancellor was up to.

  As he surveyed the ship, he saw a glowing shimmer shoot up the main mast. The soft golden glow lasted only a moment but the way the light moved reminded him of what had happened when Eldrick had entered the Sentinel tree. Couldn’t be, could it? He thought to himself as he stared up at the mast. The thought was lost though as Seth and Cagan urged him up to the high deck. From the high deck near the ship’s wheel, the trio stared out into the night and wondered what the morrow would bring.

  Chapter Nine

  Adrina walked through the garden lost in thought, as she did often now. Many thoughts crossed her mind, each seeming to blow in and out with a fresh breeze. She walked until she came to the white gazebo in the center of the garden and rested a bit. She had not felt well lately and grew tired easily. Her skin was milky white and her eyes held a pinkish haze. Father Francis blamed it on her not eating though she insisted she had been eating.

  Pain hit her suddenly and she doubled over. She began to cry out as she coughed up blood once more. The tiny dragon she had named Tnavres dropped from her shoulder and licked the blood hungrily. “Stop!” she called out to the beast. “Follow, hurry!”

  Tnavres hopped back onto her shoulder. She waved a finger to scold him. “Naughty, Tnavres,” she said, “Bad dragon.”

  Dizzy and weak, slowly she staggered back to her room. She would not tell Father Francis about this. She hoped she could make it back to her chamber without him or any of the servants spotting her. The walk seemed overly long and arduous. It was all she could do to hold herself upright. She was so very tired; her body desperately needed sleep. Everything spun suddenly and she grabbed out at the wall, using it as a support.

  Tnavres flapped his wings rapidly from his perch atop her shoulder. He was as agitated as she was disoriented. Without warning he launched from her shoulder.

  She reached out to catch him but as she did this, he turned about and locked his jaws around her hand. His teeth plunged inward; the flesh of her hand turned to stone. As she stumbled and fell against the wall, she gripped her forearm and squeezed with all her might as if this alone could stop the progression.

  “No, not again,” she whispered as she clutched her arm.

  “Yes, again,” came the voice. “You don’t listen.”

  “But I have listened and done all you asked. I gave you it all. What more do you want? What more?”

  “You know what more. What must I do to convince you?”

  “Never,” she cried out.

  In her mind’s eye, Adrina saw the Dragon King, his great wings spread wide and his great clawed hands reaching out, enveloping her. “To live, you must. It will only take a moment and then it will be done. You must not fight; you must accept. Do you understand?”

  Adrina started to respond. Pain swept through her body. She coughed up blood. “You are a liar!” she shouted.

  “Not me,” said the Dragon King. “This is not my doing. Hurry now or it will be too late.”

  Adrina writhed and convulsed on the floor. “Make it stop,” she whimpered.

  “Only you, Adrina Alder, can make it stop. Do what I’ve asked and it will be done.”

  The pain sought to sweep her away. “Yes,” she shouted out, “I’ll do whatever you ask.”

  “So be it,” said the Dragon King and with the saying, the one became the many and the dragon flock took flight.

  On the floor beside her, Tnavres released his grip on her hand. He jumped up onto her leg, cocked his head to the side as if listening to something or someone unseen. With his head, he lifted up her shirt then he faded into her, leaving only his mark upon her skin.

  Adrina’s eyes went wide as the pain left her. She stood unsteadily then hurried down the hall. When she reached her room, she crawled into bed and soon fell asleep. She was so tired and her bed was so warm and soothing. A convulsion sent a shock wave through her body that forced her to consciousness. Rubbing her head as it throbbed, she made her way to the basin near the bed. Her hand trembled violently as she poured a cup of water and raised it to her lips. She spilled most of it onto the floor. The cool water was momentarily soothing to her throat and stomach. She dipped a cloth into the basin and touched it to her forehead, groping her way back to bed. A cough sent her into another seizure and she vomited up the water. Afterward
s she grew sleepy again and fell back to sleep.

  A familiar sound drifted into her thoughts, a voice that had soothed her through many childhood illnesses. The voice of the one who had recently left her, Isador, whispering to her that everything would be all right. She wondered if she were dreaming, but then the voice streamed into her consciousness again, soft and pleasant, nurturing.

  “I am sorry, Izzy,” she said, momentarily slipping into the familiar little girl’s voice that the presence of her nanny stirred. “I didn’t mean for you to have to return to Imtal. I’m getting better really. I’ll be fit in no—”

  “I don’t think so. You just rest for awhile. I will be back momentarily,” Myrial said, cutting Adrina short. She did not have the heart to tell her that she was not Isador.

  Adrina rapidly dropped off. She dreamed of Valam and Seth. All the arguments and fun times they had had together. She missed them both. Images played in her unconscious for a time, and then she entered a pleasant deep slumber. She had only been asleep for a couple of hours, or so it seemed, when she was awakened. The voice sounded so urgent, and so very distant.

  “Wake up, princess, wake up!” shouted Myrial.

  To Adrina, it seemed it was Isador who shook her again and again and wiped her face with a wet, soothing cloth.

  “Please, Adrina. Wake up,” begged the girl.

  Adrina didn’t want to wake up; she still was so tired. She wanted to sleep.

  “Wha-a-at?” she asked groggily.

  “Come quick, princess!”

  “Whaaat isss itt?” asked Adrina through a yawn.

  “It is King Andrew; hurry.”

  Thoughts of sleep were suddenly chased away. Adrina jumped out of bed, pulling a robe around her as she raced out the door and down the hall to her father’s chamber.

  Father Francis and many others were gathered around his bedside when she arrived. The priests of the Father led by Francis were chanting words in the holy tongue; and from the level of their tone, she knew something was amiss. Her father smiled as he saw her face. He waved at the priests to fend them off and to end their unnerving chanting.

  She quickly knelt beside his bed, taking his hand as she did so. She asked Father Francis what was wrong, but he only answered by shaking his head. She tightly clasped her father’s hand and burst into tears.

  “Don’t go, father, please!” begged Adrina, “I love you!”

  King Andrew brushed the tears from her eyes and held her hand. “Don’t be frightened, my child,” he spoke weakly, “it will be fine, just fine.”

  Andrew bit back the pain that was welling up inside him. He coughed and spit blood onto the pillow beside him. Father Francis jumped to his sire’s side, attempting to push Adrina away, so he could continue the healing rights.

  “No, please, no!” screamed Adrina.

  “She will stay,” said Andrew in a voice that was scarcely audible.

  Father Francis released Adrina and she raced back to her father’s side.

  “Stay with me!” whispered Adrina, turning Andrew’s words back around.

  A sparkle touched his eyes as he took her hand again. “Send word to Valam to return at once,” he said, pulling her close to him as he whispered in her ear, “I love you, my daughter, you are my pride and Valam and Calyin, my joy. I go now to her. She’s waited so long.”

  Andrew’s voice faded off as he spoke, the pain becoming too much for him. He squeezed Adrina’s hand tightly and then sighed a gasp of relief, holding his composure even at the end.

  The priests started to chant loudly, wild in their requests to the Father to spare their monarch’s life. Father Francis even offered his own life in place of Andrew’s, but the Father would not accept his offer. Sadly the chants shifted from pleas to the cry for the dead, a song of mourning.

  King Andrew’s last words to Adrina had been words of love for his kingdom and his family. Adrina was swept with tears. She cried out to the Great Father, but received no answer. Attempting to soothe her, Father Francis embraced her. Adrina ran away screaming as he touched her. She ran until she came to her room, where she slammed and bolted the door.

  Chapter Ten

  A small group of weary survivors stood in the midst of the gap in the great Northern Range where the trail that cut its way up Solstice Mountain ended, and the great trail that spread through the gap converged on several others smaller than itself. Staring heavenward, they watched the mantel of haze dissipate. And for the first time eyes were allowed to gaze upon the lofty peak from so far below.

  Those watching knew with certainty that the City of the Sky was no more. As they had chased the hushed veil of twilight down the mountain, Noman had reconsidered a thought that had briefly passed through his mind in the heat of the battle; a force beyond Sathar the Dark was at work here playing a guarded game with the balance of power. He wondered who or what it was that played such a twisted game and what sort of amusement it brought, realizing with certainty that this first challenge had been just that—a challenge meant to divert attention away from something greater. But what was it? Momentarily satisfied by the sense that something would be revealed soon, Noman shrugged his shoulders and cast the thoughts away. After all, there were more pressing matters to consider and the shaman’s voice could not have caught him at a more opportune moment.

  “Come!” said Xith weakly, “My home is not far from here. We can rest there and heal our wounds.” Xith’s voice trailed off as he finished and he slumped to the ground. His face, beaded heavily with perspiration, was deathly pale.

  Ayrian was the first to his side, at first attempting to help his weary companion to his feet. Yet as the shaman’s hands fell away, his tunic, lacerated and charred in a wide circle around the chest and shoulder area, revealed a large patch of scorched and blistered flesh beneath.

  “What of the boy?” asked Xith, his last words as he slipped into unconsciousness. He had seen the form of the boy fall and the will of the wanderer rise.

  “Now is the time to tend to wounds,” said Noman, “there is no hurry now; morning comes.” His voice rose at the last with an air of hope.

  “The shadows,” whispered Ayrian, his words at first in response to the diviner and then to the shaman. “He is no more.”

  “Shadows fade in the sunlight,” whispered Noman, returning the foreboding tone that Ayrian had used with equal fervor. “Sit,” he ushered, indicating that Ayrian, too, should rest.

  “I am fine, old one, tend to Xith,” said Ayrian, despite the deep gouge stemming from elbow to shoulder.

  Noman and Amir worked long to clean and bind the wounds. Xith’s injury continued to fester no matter what they did; the flesh all around it was seared, shock had set in, and they feared the worst for the shaman. The Gray Eagle Lord’s shoulder wound was by far less severe; and in time, he would regain the use of his arm and the attached wing though it would be sore for some time and would have to be re-worked into shape. Still, he would most certainly recover.

  Noman sent Amir to cut down two saplings and strip the leaves and branches from them. With them, he formed a stretcher of sorts, in which they could carry Xith. Once it was secure, they placed Xith on it. The next step was to find the place Xith spoke of, and to do this Noman would have to connect with the shaman’s weakened mind. He touched a soft hand to Xith’s forehead and probed his mind, searching through thoughts that flowed to him without resistance until he found what he was looking for, the hidden entrance to the fallen city of Ywentir, a place lost to most save the Watcher and now Noman.

  Ywentir was a place much like the Cloud City; both were distant images from the past, times when great secrecy prevailed, times when there had been so much need and so little hope, times when sanctuaries had been a desperate necessity yet were now only faint, distant memories. The mystical city had been one of the last strongholds of the peoples of the northern realms, and in fact had been the last stronghold of the Keepers of the Watch eons ago. The travelers would be safe there as long as they
could reach it before the arrival of night. He knew, as they all did, the dark forces were by no means defeated. They had just begun the challenge. The minions of darkness were many, unlike those of good, who numbered few, and they would be set back only temporarily by the night’s proceedings.

  The three, shouldering the burden of Xith’s still form, made their way along the path that would carry them through the mountains toward the land of the North though not through it, for the northern lands were oddly separated, segregated by the great mountains themselves. Two great spines of the Northern Range divided the land into three disparate tracts. There had once been many who knew the paths and tunnels that connected the lands, but alas no more. Noman would have to rely on the information that he had gleaned from the shaman’s mind, for even he was not privy to the secrets that the northlands held.