Andreas Vanderslyke, Captain of the Guard, crouched on the frost-slick ramparts, watching. Below, thirty mounted soldiers shifted in the dawn light, metal rasped, leather creaked, horses stamped. Their breath hung white in the bitter air. In the center waited Prince Saad, alone beside his gray gelding. Two stable boys gripped the reins, avoiding the prince's eyes.
Andreas exhaled. "A royal patrol? More like punishment."
The measured footfalls of the royal family echoed across Hero's Walk. King Vardon's sable cloak swept the stones; Queen Ellis's skirts whispered frost; Prince Saad's jaw clenched in forced deference. Andreas descended to meet them, armor heavy on his shoulders.
"Glorin was to meet us," the king said, his words clouding. "Have you seen him?"
"No, my liege." Andreas kept his voice neutral. "Shall I send for him?"
Vardon glanced at the rising sun, then dismissed the question with a gauntleted hand. The patrol shifted behind Andreas, a collective sigh, the clink of bridles, horses snorting plumes of white.
The first golden light spilled over the wall. Andreas approached again, catching the sour scent of fear from Saad as the prince gripped his gelding's bridle, the same beast he'd ordered gelded in a rage five seasons past.
"My lord," Andreas said, bowing until his breastplate scraped stone, "Blackrock lies two days east. To reach it by nightfall tomorrow…"
"Very well." Vardon's displeasure tightened his lips, but he nodded. "Glorin will catch up."
Relief rippled through the men. Saad bent to kiss his mother's cheek; a single tear caught the light on her lash. He extended a trembling hand to his father before mounting.
The great gate swung wide. As the patrol began to file out, a voice cut through the morning air: "Be alert!"
Andreas looked up. Prince Glorin's flaxen braid vanished behind the parapet. The king and queen froze, their faces suddenly bloodless. Without a word, they retreated into the shadows of the keep. Only Saad rode forward, into the rising sun.
Andreas remained in the churned courtyard, dust settling around his boots, a cold knot tightening in his gut. What transgression had earned Glorin's warning? And what fate awaited them beyond the walls?
A full lunar cycle later, Blair led three cloaked figures up Talon Pass. Wind screamed through the rocks, tearing at their seal-hide scarves. Hooves crunched on frozen scree. Blair halted beneath a towering black spur, the "dragon's talon", then vanished.
Moments passed before his face reappeared, pale against the darkness. "The rock hides a passage," he called. "The horses know the way."
One by one, the animals ducked through an invisible seam. Heat struck them like a furnace blast as they entered a perfect circular chamber. Three black sconces cast wild shadows across walls polished by inhuman hands.
Finrod pushed back his hood, frost glittering in his hair. "Ancient work," he said, stamping life back into his feet.
"Titan-made?" Blair asked.
"A curious shelter," Finrod replied. "But where's this talisman dealer?"
Blair approached one flame and thrust his arm directly into it. The fire curled around his flesh without burning as he found and twisted a hidden lever. A loud click echoed, and a curved section of wall ground aside, revealing a spiraling staircase.
They descended into polished onyx, an echoing hall lined with obsidian pillars, its floor split by a crimson carpet. Above, a prism chandelier scattered fragments of light. At the far end loomed massive doors of shifting golden filigree. Blair lifted a lion-head knocker and let it fall.
Thunder rolled through the silence. The doors creaked open.
Beyond stretched a narrow torch-lit corridor carved from raw stone. Blair stepped forward. "Tartus," he called, voice steady. "It's me, the rambling mouse, with visitors."
A bookcase pivoted, revealing a being that stole Blair's breath, broad-shouldered and golden-furred, with four powerful arms each holding a massive tome. Hooved legs clicked against stone as the creature stepped forward, gray eyes holding ancient wisdom.
"Tartus," Blair said, hand falling to the sword at his hip, "it's Mouse Willow."
Recognition kindled in the creature's eyes. It closed its books and settled into a striped chair that dwarfed it. "Young Willow," it rumbled, "how fares your father? He demanded news of the Magik unleashed upon the land. You arrived remarkably swift after the calamity."
Blair's throat tightened. "What calamity?"
"First, your purpose," Tartus said, waving a massive claw toward Blair's companions. "And these, elven sorcerers in disguise. Remove your Magik."
The three travelers exchanged glances. Finrod broke the silence, lowering his hood with deliberate slowness. He removed a crystal pendant from his neck. Golden light cascaded down his form.
Blair stepped back, breath catching. Where three ordinary men had stood, three impossible beings now towered, wheat-gold hair, skin with a verdant undertone, angular amber eyes, and ears that ended in delicate serrations. The scent of moss and loam filled the chamber.
"Impossible," Blair whispered, hand trembling as he reached toward them, then pulled back.
Finrod stepped forward with inhuman grace. "How did the king of Monde come to employ a Zoltar as his mage?"
Tartus inclined his massive head. "I serve Mertzanis's design, unbreakable loyalty to the realm and utter honesty. I guard these three volumes of the Trimort, for only they prevent spells from igniting."
Steaming platters appeared before them, rich stew, dark bread, glistening fruit. Between mouthfuls, Tartus recounted the Zoltars' betrayal of Icarius, the freezing of five ancients, and Mertzanis's creation of himself from the fifth soul.
Blair set down his spoon. "We seek a talisman and knowledge of the dark Magik. Are we in peril?"
Tartus's eyes narrowed as he spoke:
"Mistress of Fire, Seeker of Stone, Reflections in the eyes of Demons Unknown, Loins of Royalty, hold the Key. Only Triumph shall set the Nations free."
From beneath his chair, he produced a golden medallion. "Wear this openly."
Blair studied the medallion's face, crossed swords with different hilts, a red-gemmed eye on one side, a quarter moon and star on the other. Two depressions marked the back, one diamond-shaped, one circular.
The weight of it felt significant as he slipped it around his neck. When he released it against his chest, it seemed to vanish from his awareness.
"Where do I go to be seen?" Blair asked. "I cannot ride every street in the kingdom."
"The Temple of Lashnar," Tartus said, his voice suddenly uncertain. "At the next full moon. A general council gathers there."
Blair closed his fist around the medallion, cold metal warming against his palm. With Tartus's solemn nod, the four travelers slipped back through the passage, the prophecy hanging between them like an unspoken vow.
Three days earlier, in the Temple of Lashnar, Shandar Corpus hovered between worlds. A golden medallion spun through her vision, symbols blazing. As she reached for it, it leapt to a man's throat, steel-blue eyes burning into hers with something that felt like destiny.
"Blair," she whispered, jolting awake.
Cool hands steadied her. Novina, the apprentice healer, pressed a damp cloth to Shandar's forehead. "Lie back," she murmured. "You frightened us all." Her palms hovered over Shandar's limbs, sending ripples of gooseflesh across her skin.
"What did you call me?" Shandar asked, disoriented.
"Blair? No, not Blair." Novina's face brightened. "But you understood me! My healing rune worked!" She practically bounced with excitement. "Dalvan taught it to me. The Sages of Estridge will have to accept me now!"
"Cured me of what? A bad dream?"
Novina's smile faded. "Nightmares. Four days' worth." She tapped her foot impatiently. "We fed you, tended you. Tonight, my rune brought you back." Her voice dropped. Shandar closed her eyes, steadying her racing heart with her mother's Seer's mantra. "Fetch Sido for me."
"Head Mother Sido's gone, seeking the ancient guardian. Some say the Dark One claimed her." Crossed her arms and stared at Shandar.
"She left two days ago." Novina's jaw tightened. "And Irit died in the flames, taken by the wizard Gwydion. They're gathering to petition the king against him." She turned away, muttering, "I cured her..."
Alone, Shandar sank into meditation, sorting vision from nightmare. Poor Irit. The taste of ash and loss lingered.
A soft voice broke her concentration. "Shandar? Are you awake?"
Her heart leapt. Eyes still closed, she reached toward the voice, hoping for steel-blue eyes and a golden medallion. Instead, she sensed someone else, temple robes, a trainee's medallion. Green eyes, not blue.
Disappointment washed through her. She feigned sleep.
"I'm Thaylon," he said, knuckles white around a cloth bundle. "They assigned me to check on you."
She remained silent until he offered food. "No," she snapped. "Just go."
He bowed, hurt flashing across his face, and turned to leave.
At the door, she called softly, "Wait."
He paused, wary.
"Maderia, auburn hair, northern accent. Find her. Tell her I asked for her."
Relief straightened his posture. "At once, m'lady." He bowed properly and left.
Shandar exhaled slowly. She shouldn't have manipulated him, but Maderia would welcome the message. She whispered an apology to Lashnar as she drifted back toward sleep, the fragments of her vision, medallion, eyes, destiny, circling like hawks above her consciousness.