Kaunovalta: The Complete Trilogy

By D. Alexander Neill

The Running Girl

"Wonderful escapism. 5 stars!"

"Outstanding debut novel and a great new series. Five out of five stars."

"Great series...wonderfully developed story and characters. 5 stars."

Ally of Eldisle, sword-thegn and sometime mage, bears twin burdens: a complicated heritage, and a penchant for finding herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Faced with false accusations of treason and murder, she flees to foreign lands, finding enemies all around, friends in unexpected places, and wonders undreamed-of. While struggling to keep an ancient treasure out of unfriendly hands, she is forced to reconcile her preconceptions about the wider world and its myriad inhabitants with her own origins - and to come to terms with the meaning of a bloodline lost in the depths of antiquity, created by ancestors both inhuman and unknown, and with the awful powers they have bequeathed her.

Dweorgaheim

Secure in the company of her new companions, Ally is drawn into the majesty and mysteries of the ancient realm of the dwarves. From the fires and forges of the foundry towns to the incomparable wonders of Ædeldelf, greatest of the cities of the Deeprealm, she follows her destiny, seeking ever to return the ancient treasure that she has been accused of stealing to its rightful owners. Aided by Frideswide, a priestess of Khallach the Stoneteacher; her husband Wynstan, one-time warrior and veteran of the Iron Guard; and Uchtred, an engineer and master metal-worker, Ally delves ever deeper into the ancient underground fastness of Dweorgaheim – and learns to her dismay that regardless of whether they are buried deep in the earth, or deep in her own past, some secrets are best left undisturbed.

Daughter of Dragons

Lost in the depths of Dweorgaheim, surrounded by foes, Ally finds friends and allies in unexpected places. As she struggles to reach Underdarrow and the First Forge in order to keep her oath, names from her past reappear to aid her. Locked in a duel to the death with the unchecked hordes of an abomination from beyond the walls of the world, Ally struggles with love and loss, and begins to understand both the true nature and limitless scope of the power that lies within her, and just how costly realizing that power might be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Alexander Neill
• Release date: Jul 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9780988142107

D. Alexander Neill

D. Alexander Neill is the nom-de-plume of Donald A. Neill. A retired Army officer and strategic analyst, Don is a graduate of the Royal Military College of Canada (D.E.C. 1986 and BA 1989), the Norman Paterson School of International Affairs (MA 1991), and the University of Kent at Canterbury (Ph.D. 2006). He began writing fiction as a creative outlet in Grade 6, managing to overcome devastating reviews of his first novel, which he wrote in 2H pencil in seven taped-together college-ruled notebooks. He initially chose the fantasy genre because he was sucked into it at the age of 11 by the irresistible double sucker-punch of The Hobbit and Star Wars, never managed to escape, and eventually gave up trying. He intends to branch out into other fictional fields of endeavour, but will always return to Anuru, where – Allfather willing – there will always be at least one more story waiting to be told. Don has been married for 20 years to a Valkyrie, and has two children, both of whom resemble her in temperament and, fortunately, looks.

Book preview

The Chronicles of Anuru

♦

KAUNOVALTA

The Full Trilogy

comprising

The Running Girl

Dweorgaheim

and

Daughter of Dragons

♦

Smashwords Edition

© Copyright D. Alexander Neill, 2012

ISBN 978-0-9881421-0-7 (Smashwords Edition)

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

♦♦♦

Table of Contents

Map of Ally’s Journey

Prologue: The Sacrifice of Miros

Chapter 1: Starmeadow

Chapter 2: Running

Chapter 3: Frideswide

Chapter 4: The Deeprealm

Chapter 5: Stonewisdom

Chapter 6: Pleasure-of-Dwarves

Chapter 7: Elder Delvin

Chapter 8: The Deepdark

Chapter 9: Thrymsheen

Chapter 10: Maulmark

Chapter 11: The Barrow of Bowrnleoch

Chapter 12: The Spellweaver’s Tomb

Chapter 13: Cousin of the Shadows

Chapter 14: Loss

Chapter 15: The Bridge of Bones

Chapter 16: Underdarrow

Chapter 17: Blood and Stone

Chapter 18: Scion of the Void

Chapter 19: Daughter of Dragons

Chapter 20: The Elf-Maid Redeemer

Epilogue: The Apotheosis of Miros

Appendix 1: Songs and Poems

Appendix 2: Dramatis Personae

Appendix 3: The Tale of the Making

Other books by D. Alexander Neill

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Prologue: The Sacrifice of Miros

When he had finished with each of his vile creations, Uru sent them into the world, and they gave their service and their loyalty to the Powers of the Dark. The fell beasts of the Dark were disobedient, and Bardan took them under his careful overlordship, fearing that if his siblings – who were ever untrustworthy and jealous of his rule – were to gain so great a following, they might one day challenge him for mastery of the Uruqua. Aided by his seven Servants, Bardan undertook to instruct his new minions in the dread knowledge and wisdom of Uru.

The earliest to be sent forth to plague the world were the First-Born: the dragons, and the giants. Achamkris, eldest and wisest of Bardan’s Servants, was given lordship over the great wyrms; and the uncertain fealty of the giants was given over to Gargarik, less wise, perhaps, but no less mighty. Achamkris struck a bargain with Gargarik, so that each aided the other; and, as a result, the dragons grew mightily in strength and power, and the giants grew in wisdom and lore.

Foremost among their achievements was the theft of one of Bræa’s great gifts to the Kindred. Achamkris, in mortal form, espied upon the elvii, and stole from them the secret of speech, and gave it to his children; and with it, the wyrms, long-lived and shrewd beyond mortal ken, were able to plumb the depths of the Art Magic, mastering its innermost secrets long before any among the Kindred.

Under the tutelage of Achamkris, the Dragons prospered; for they lived long years, and were in time acknowledged the most powerful, wisest, and feared of all the mortal beings upon Anuru. Fell minions of the dark quailed before them, and even some among the Powers feared to contend with the lords and princes of dragon kind. But still they were outdone by the children of Bræa, the Kindred; for the Dragons did not possess the greatest of the gifts that Bræa had vouchsafed her children: the freedom of Choice, to serve whom they wist, Anari or Uruqua, the darkness or the light.

It was Choice – a choice made by one of the daughters of Bræa – that, in the fullness of time, changed the world, and brought to naught all of her careful plans.

- from the Tarinas Valtakirjas (The Book of the Powers)

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In the days before days, before the first dawn, when all the earth lay under the stars, Hara – lord of the skies, the woodlands, and magic – walked the valleys and dells, surveying his charge, in mortal guise. In this long-vanished time – before accepting, from the hands of his sister Bræa, dominion and lordship over the elvii – Hara had, as yet, taken only one of the minions of light into his service. He was particular in his vision of the ways of the world, wise Hara was – and adamant in his desire that his adopted children should come into their powers not only with strength, but also with the wisdom to govern that strength. Thus, while the Age of Making lasted, he was served only by Gemmo, the Lady of the Winds, to whom was given dominion over the raptors and predators of the skies. She was a paragon of swiftness and of strength; her sight was long, and none could approach her on the wing, and she wielded a golden sword, from which sprang the fires of the heavens.

But though he was pleased with her service and her guardianship of the skies, Hara sought out others to bear his will unto the woodlands. For Gemmo loved the winds, and the clouds, and descended therefrom only to visit the eyries of her people, and came not unto the earth, save only in pursuit of prey. And so, Hara sought far and wide for one of the minions of light who might be willing to serve him as a guardian of the woodlands. He found none; and so he cast his net wider. At length he discovered one of the Brahiri, the children of Bræa, newly severed from their divine mother; one of the elvii, a rough warrior who roamed the woodlands with bow and sword, confounding the beasts and minions of the Uruqua, taking especial pleasure in confounding the designs of Bardan.

This warrior was called Larranel. In his ferocity, his skill at arms, his love of the forests and of his people, Hara found a spirit meet unto his needs; and he approached the warrior, and elevated him as his second servant. And right well did Larranel serve his new master, haunting wood and wold like death avenging; until, in the fullness of time, he had earned another name among his former kinsmen: Defensor Sylvanus, that is ‘Protector of the Woodlands’. And in latter days, Larranel the Protector was much beloved and revered of the greenland-dwellers among the Haradi, and was hailed as the greatest of Hara’s servants.

But still Hara besought him still for a third servant; for his sister Bræa had vouchsafed him a third duty, making him the patron of those among the Kindred who counted themselves practitioners of the Art Magic. This was a difficult task to answer, for the Brahiri were yet new to the arcane art, even those who would later become Hara’s children, the Haradi; and many long years would pass before they mastered the flux, and the great mage-kings Tior, and Xiardath, and Biardath would come to plumb its uttermost depths. And so Hara searched long, and in vain.

These years, the waning years of the Second Age, the Age of Making, were a fell time for the Brahiri. For they had been rejected by their mother Bræa, who, fearing their free and wilful natures, had lifted up her hand to unmake them; and though they had been spared this doom by the intervention of Ana, and Bræa had repented of her rash decision, and given up the light that was in her, the care of the Brahiri had not yet been given into the hands of the brothers of Bræa, who in time would become their new teachers and guardians. Thus the kindred found themselves bereft of guidance ,and at the mercy of the evil powers, and in darkness; for the light of Bræa was gone from them, and the Lantern had not yet been forged by Ana, and placed in the sky to brighten the world for them. They lived without the protection of their mother, who had hitherto kept them safe from all harm, and were besieged upon all sides.

It was then, after her betrayal and fall, that Bardan attempted to undo the various creations of Bræa. To this end, he sent his monsters against the kingdoms of the Brahiri, all of which were scattered, and disorganized, and despondent in their abandonment. And though the monsters were few in number, they were mighty in stature and in strength. The great vermin spread across the lands of the Brahiri, bringing pestilence and laying waste to crop and furrow. Bats and vultures rained from the skies, wolves ranged far and wide, and the Giants bestrode the land like titans, wreaking untold destruction.

Most fearsome, however, were the great wyrms of Achamkris, Lord of Dragons, who in addition to their matchless strength and invulnerability, had learned well the secrets of the Art Magic that Achamkris had stolen from the elvii. Thus while the Brahiri had the strength to withstand even the greatest of the attacks by the other monsters, the wyrms breached their defences time and again; and Bræa’s children stood, in their final extremity, upon the very precipice of ruin.

Into this dark and uncertain world, Miros was born – a princess of the elvii, daughter of one of the lesser kings of a lesser kingdom. The youngest of five children and the only daughter, she was a child of grace and beauty, who had forsaken her family’s martial tradition, taking up the staff instead of the sword. It was a hard road she chose, for there were then few magi and books, and no masters or colleges; thus, she learned her art from the winds and skies, and the trees of the forests, and the dark bones of the earth. And though she discovered much in this wise, and grew powerful, as potent a mage as ever her people had known, the deepest secrets of the Art Magic escaped her. For even the mightiest of students, in order to prosper, advance, and triumph, requires a mighty teacher.

Her father was a fell warrior, but he was no mage. For long and long had he held his mountain realm against the onslaught of the minions of Bardan; but mortal flesh was no match for the might of the Powers of Dark, and at length, after too many bloody victories, his warriors had been slaughtered, his bastions had crumbled, and his kingdom lay in flames. One of Miros’ earliest memories was of her father wielding his mighty sword left-handed; for one of the great wyrms had taken the right. Yet even maimed, he remained a terror to his foes, slaying all who assailed him, or who threatened his precious daughter. And when Miros marvelled at his strength, and wept for his sacrifice, he told her, in gentle tones and low, that the true warrior of the light does not fear pain, or shun it; but rather embraces pain, and turns it into power.

It was a lesson that she never forgot.

When at last her father was slain whilst defending the gates of his city from the hosts of darkness, Miros – her heart breaking with the pain of bereavement – remembered the lesson of the right hand. She clung to her father’s words, so well-remembered, and took them into the shadows of her heart, and there they grew. In that, her darkest hour, she conceived a plan. Cloaked in the raiment of fallen foes, she left her father’s city, travelling deep into the mountain vales claimed by Bardan’s monsters. Posing as an itinerant conjurer, she sought out the greatest of the wyrm-magi of Achamkris, winning her way past sentries, and even whole armies, by the power of her magic, her sheer audacity, and the force of the spirit that burned within her.

At length, after learning much, and surviving many narrow escapes, Miros came upon the fastness of Sciarratekkan. Most ancient; once the mightiest of dragons, now an aged and wily serpent, the Captain-General of the incarnadine wyrms had at one time stood first among all of the councillors of Achamkris. But no longer; his strength was failing, and his end was near, delayed only by dint of his incomparable magicks, and by the sheer force of the blazing desire within his breast.

The princess of elves cast her life into the crucible in the hope that she had rightly guessed just what the great wyrm’s greatest desire might be.

Using all of the skill and wit at her command, Miros penetrated his lair, evading or defeating all of his slaves and guardians in turn, and at last confronted him, seeking to wrest the deepest secrets of his power from him. But unknown to her, her subtleties were of no avail, for Sciarratekkan had lived long, far longer than she; far longer, in fact, than any others of his kind. His power and mastery vastly outstripped her own. In the instant that she met his eye she was unmasked, helpless and mind-bared before the great red wyrm.

As was and is the way of his kind, Sciarratekkan toyed with the elf-maiden, hoping to see how much of herself she was prepared to sell in order to buy her freedom and her life, seeking to debase her and plunge her into despair before consuming her utterly. But Miros surprised him. Rather than pleading or weeping, she stood tall and proud before her fell foe, and offered her flesh to her captor.

It is mine already, to do with as I wish, Sciarratekkan hissed, scorching the air with his sulphurous exhalations, the deadly lash of the wyrm-speech ringing in her mind like the tones of an adamant bell.

Your pardon, incarnadine one, but you misunderstand, the maiden replied, struggling to keep her voice bright and unwavering despite the swift shiver of fear that clawed at her soul. I do not offer myself as meat, but as mate.

Pardon yourself, insignificant one, the dragon answered, vile mockery dripping from every word, his vast jaw working in a terrifying grin. But I fear you would find my bulk…uncomfortable.

Surely a mage of your power could rectify the disparity, she replied archly.

Indeed. Sciarratekkan hissed an incantation in the sibilant tongue of his people, and his figure warped and blurred. An instant later, the great wyrm had vanished, and in its place stood an elf-lord – tall and well-made, of surpassing beauty, like unto that of Miros’ folk. But he had scarlet hair such as no elf had, that writhed and smoked in the hot, vaporous atmosphere of the great wyrm’s weyr; and his eyes whirled and glowed a deep, deadly crimson, like pools of viscid fire.

Miros stood motionless as this fiendish vision of one of her kin-folk approached. She felt a line of fire along her jaw as Sciarratekkan stretched out his hand and caressed her cheek. That is not what I had envisioned, she said. Then, with swift words, she repeated his incantation; and in a heartbeat, the elf-maiden was gone. In her place crouched an enormous incarnadine wyrm, blood-red and deadly, sleek, and surpassingly lovely…at least in the eyes of a dragon.

Sciarratekkan reversed his transformation, and a moment later the great wyrms stood together, necks entwining. Is this why you came to me? the elder wyrm asked, eloquent and commanding, at home in the unspoken dialogue of his natural idiom.

In part, Miros replied in the same language. I will speak plainly, for it is said that no lies can be told in the tongue of dragons. I seek only the power and skill to protect my people from the depredations of your armies. To obtain it I offer you my industry, my obedience and my body, for a span of seven years.

That is but the breath of a whisper in the life of dragons, Sciarratekkan replied, nettled by her candour, and yet intrigued by her offer. And – it must be said – aroused, by her beauty and her power. He had been centuries without a mate.

As it is in the lives of Elves, Miros answered tartly. But for you, it is a guarantee of immortality.

Again, I beg your pardon, dread master, but I must speak plainly. You are old; and though your power is yet great, unmatched among your folk, your hide is dark, your teeth are dull, and the beat of your wings no longer shakes the earth. Your mate departed an age and more ago, and never have you taken another.

You have no heir. I offer you the chance for your legacy to live on…through our child.

Sciarratekkan snorted derisively. A bastard offspring; half a dragon, half an elf. What manner of legacy is that?

A legacy of power, Miros replied. You are unsurpassed in might, and all-knowing in the ways of the dark. I am well-versed in the lore of my people and the power of the light. Our child would bestride both worlds, a magus unrivalled in all the history of Anuru.

The ancient wyrm was entranced by the maiden’s offer, but still cautious. My master, he said slowly, would not view my betrayal of his arcane secrets with favour.

What matters that, Miros asked bluntly, if you are near death in any case, and your posterity has been assured, and your line hidden from him? She held her breath as the elder dragon debated with himself.

At long last, he nodded. It is well, he said. I accept your bargain, child of Bræa. You will be my love, and learn my art. Our paths will be joined forever, and you will raise our child to follow it. And his footsteps will shake the foundations of the earth.

Thus was the bargain struck. elf joined with Dragon, breaching the unbreachable gulf separating the darkness from light, and spanning the void that had separated the children of Bræa from the monsters of Bardan since the Making. Miros opened herself to the scorching embrace of her foe, and became one with him. The two bloodlines, mingled by magic, grew strong together – mighty in wisdom, rife with arcane power, and as invincible as adamant. The inviolable boundaries set in place in ages long past were shattered, and the shadow of that shattering would in time prove long and grievous upon the earth.

The lovers did not care; each was surfeited by the fruits of their bargain. Sciarratekkan was besotted with his new mate, for Miros was not only beautiful; she was skilled, and talented, and knowledgeable. And she was curious; she learned quickly the ways of dragons, and though the lessons often were difficult, even harsh, she endured them. Indeed, she soon came to long for her weyr-mate’s embrace; for, in the union of their bodies, his spirit relaxed its iron vigilance, and their minds were as one. In their shared passion, she gleaned much from his unguarded spirit that might otherwise have been closed to her.

As she slowly came to comprehend the vast, incomparable arcane mastery of the great wyrms, Miros – to her consternation and dread – kindled. As she worked, and studied, and learned, her mate’s child quickened in her womb. Oft she lay awake at night, apprehensive, feeling the fell creature growing inside her, gritting her teeth to smother the pain as her diminutive form stretched beyond all nature to accommodate the creature taking shape within it. She knew well what she bore: a twisted, unnatural child; an abomination that had no place in the plans of Bræa or of Bardan, and no claim on life or sustenance anywhere in heaven or upon the earth.

The pain of the quickening was nigh unbearable, but she determined to bear it. Each day, she swore that she would last another, and thus earn another day’s wisdom from her ancient tutor, and so purchase another day’s survival for her people. To ease the pain, she spent more and more time in dragon’s form, living as one of the great red wyrms; and she came to understand their lust for wealth, and power, and glory, and the skies, and began to comprehend their indifference to mortal aspirations and endeavours, and their contempt for the petty, weak, ephemeral beings that crawled like insects in the dust beneath their wings.

All these things wyrm-form granted her; and as she became one with the wyrm, the memory of her old shape faded and grew dim. She had learned well the lesson of the right hand; she had embraced her pain, and it became her power. And that power grew daily.

At length, the seven-year span ended, and it seemed to Miros that the time had come and gone in a fleeting instant, like the beat of a moth’s wing. Sciarratekkan was despondent, saddened that his bargain with Miros had come to an end. To his surprise, he had grown genuinely fond of the lovely elf-maiden, for she had proven to be more than a careful and ingenious student; she was also a courteous and gentle companion, a staunch weyr-mate, and a dutiful and dedicated consort. And she was mighty; he realized at last that, under his able tutelage, her power had grown to match his, and he was both please, and astonished.

And, too, she was the mother of his heir. The great wyrm felt a great affection for the child of mingled blood that was growing rapidly within her womb – affection, and pride. He found that he was looking forward, with great anticipation, to meeting his child, and learning its name, and teaching it to fly, to hunt, and – most important of all – to grip the flux in its talons, and bend it to its will.

Thus when Miros arose one morning, taking – for the first time in more than a year – the shape of her mother’s people, the great wyrm’s spirit quailed within him. For he knew that the period of her commitment, the end of the their bargain was at long last come.

Sciarratekkan eyed the tiny elf-woman’s rippling, distended abdomen with dismay, and plunged into despair at the thought that he would not see his child born, nor watch it prosper and grow. He pleaded with her to stay at his side. Will you not remain with me, he implored, that we might raise our child jointly, and see it grow strong, and set upon the path to power, and together instruct it in the arcane arts?

Miros smiled gently. Dread lord, said she, I have no intention of ever leaving this, our home.

Sciarratekkan was relieved, even delighted, but at the same time puzzled. Have you then forsaken your people, and your promise to deliver to them the fruits of your bargain?

I have forsaken no one, Miros replied firmly. I intend indeed to gift them with the hard-won fruits of my labours. But only in part.

Reaching into her robes, she held up a scroll of magnificent white parchment, bound with a golden cord. I have done so every day. All of your wisdom now resides with them. This… testament contains the last of the knowledge, art and mastery that I have learned from you. It is my legacy to my people, for it will give them the power to resist you and all your foul brood; and, if you persist against them, to destroy you.

Also, she added in a forlorn voice, it explains why I have done what I have done; and why I now do what I must. Closing her eyes, she whispered a brief incantation, and the scroll vanished. An instant later, its place in her hand was taken by a gleaming silver dagger.

The great wyrm frowned. What have you done, my love? he asked, still not comprehending the import of her words.

As I promised, I have shared with my people one of the fruits of our union, the elf-maiden replied firmly, yet with a grim set to her jaw. All of your knowledge is now in their hands, to be used to confound your master, and his master, and all the Powers of Dark.

But wherefore yon blade? the dragon asked, nonplussed. What possible reason…

It is a remedy, Miros interjected harshly, for the other outcome of our liaison.

Perhaps one day, the children of Bræa will join with the great wyrms, and will spawn a long line of powerful magi. But if we do, it will be on our terms, not yours.

I, for one, will never be party to such an abomination. And so saying, she reversed the dagger, and to Sciarratekkan’s horror, plunged it deep into her swollen belly.

The dark child shrieked in agony within her womb as the dagger pierced her tender flesh, burying itself within the wyrmling’s unborn body. Miros ground her teeth against the pain and collapsed to the flame-scarred and smoke-stained floor of the cavern. The wyrm-spawn clawed frantically at her womb, struggling for life; and first one razor-taloned foot, then another, and finally a claw tore through her tender flesh, emerging into the dank air of the great wyrm’s lair, staining the stones with gouts and spatters of its mother’s blood.

With the grim determination of the doomed, Miros grasped the squawking, struggling, mortally wounded dragonet, and tore its writhing body from the ragged wound in her midriff. Smiling coldly into her mate’s horrified eyes, she calmly twisted and broke the tiny creature’s neck…then tossed the pathetic, bloody little corpse at Sciarratekkan’s feet.

Her eyes fell on the still, silent thing. It had been a female, she realized.

Something within her broke at the terrible, heart-wrenching sight.

The great wyrm reared back in surprise, hissing and baring his fangs. Murderer! Betrayer and oath-breaker! he screamed, shattering the rocks, and scattering his terrified minions to the corners of the cavern.

This is not murder, but a cleansing, Miros hissed through pain-gritted teeth, lapsing in her extremity into the speech of her people. Nor have I broken any oaths. The elves make no bargains with the vermin of Bardan!

Liar! The great dragon screeched. Liar and deceiver! You promised me your obedience and your love!

I promised you only my flesh, worm, Miros taunted him. Take it. I need it no longer.

And with that last word – her mission complete, and her life sped – she set the edge of her dagger to her throat, and cut deep.

As her body slumped to the floor of the cave, Sciarratekkan trumpeted like a mad beast, howling to the skies in rage, agony and despair. The very stones of his lair were riven from their foundations, and a black cloud blotted out the sun. A storm of incandescence incinerated his fallen consort and his murdered child, and mounted in a vast, towering pyre visible for a hundred leagues, that melted the very bedrock of his lair, drowning the ancient wyrm and all of his servants, slaves and minions in a vast, seething ocean of consuming flame.

Miros closed her eyes against the incarnadine glare, and greeted the cleansing fire with a sigh of relief.

♦♦♦

Chapter 1: Starmeadow

Her first glimpse of the great city took her breath away.

She had been catching sight of its spires for the past hour, ever since riding out of the Greenwall and into the rolling verdant hills that her people called Astrapratum, the Starmeadow. The hills seemed to wrap around the vast, bowl-shaped river valley that held the city proper, enfolding it in deep ripples of emerald dotted with scattered trees, farmsteads and small habitats that followed the cobbled ways. Here, in this part of the Homelands, all roads led into the vale fed by the slow, silver-blue flood that was so old and well-known to the elves that it was merely called Lymphus – the Lifewater.

The south-road followed the undulating sweep of the hills, wending its way from valley to peak to valley again, like a river itself, albeit one of close-fit stone. There were people on it – many people. Most walking, some riding, even a few horse-carts and wagons. Commoners, students, farmers, woodsmen, warriors, adepts and acolytes and apprentices; she was even overtaken by a curtained carriage that rattled loudly past, causing her tired horse to shy skittishly. A few scattered folk at first, then dozens; and finally, as she approached the environs of the city, where all of the roadways converged, there were hundreds. The river of cobblestones drowned beneath a river of life.

Hax was glad to be riding. She had never been fond of crowds.

Closer to the city, the road dipped down into a final valley, densely carpeted with trees. It was, she thought, like riding through a garden. The road meandered between vast, towering trunks, through a lighter-green carpet of moss, lichen and low bushes, all planted to form an intricate and eye-catching pattern. The trees themselves perplexed her; there seemed to be no logic to their arrangement, and the odd intermingling of species – oak and apple, pine and beech, walnut and redwood – was unnatural, inexplicable. Until she breathed in.

It’s a poem, she realized with sudden delight. A poem, written in the perfume of the forest.

How astonishing.

The trees, flowering in high summer, were exuding their characteristic scents, and these mixed and mingled in an olfactory harmony that simultaneously stimulated and relaxed, intimidated and inspired the observer. Whoever had planted this garden (and Hax, staring up in wonder at the vast, towering heights of the leafy crowns, far above her head, wondered how long ago that had been) had planned its structure and layout to achieve precisely this impact upon passersby.

She breathed in again, consciously flaring her nostrils, and was rewarded by even deeper and more profound shades of sensation – the mosses and lichens, the bushes and flowers, the vines and even the fungi clinging to the trunks; they were all part of the symphony. The scents did not mix and muddy; each remained distinct, like the colours in a rainbow, blending only slightly at their edges, like a delicately-spiced confection.

In the instant that she grasped its purpose, Hax also comprehended that the garden’s message – its unique, incomparable scent-poem – would be perceived differently by a rider travelling the road in the opposite direction. You couldn’t do it with words, she thought, blinking groggily, bemused by the olfactory assault. A poem of words would be meaningless if spoken back-to-front. But this…

Narrow shafts of sunlight lanced down through the canopy, appearing like pillars of fire in the sparkling reflections of pollen-grains dancing on the light breeze. Butterflies flitted between them, clustering around the beams, seeking warmth in their dance. Hax watched them, gratified by purposeful randomness of their ballet, and noticed that others of her race were wandering slowly amid the tree-trunks, gliding gracefully between the flower-beds, wearing the same rapt, bedazzled smile that she must have been wearing herself.

First time?

Hax blinked. She was surprised to discover that her horse was standing stock-still. How long have I been…?

Glancing around, she saw that the foot-traffic on the road was thickening, and that pedestrians were skirting her mount, some shooting her an irritated glance.

One of these had stopped next to her horse’s head. It was a man. Commoner, she thought instantly. He was about her own height but much more heavily built, with shaggy hair tied back in a thick braid, simply dressed in a sleeveless leather jerkin over heavy trousers. And he had, she noticed, an odd pattern of white scars across his knuckles and forearms.

I beg your pardon? she said politely.

"The Hortum Elandiria, he replied, making an all-encompassing gesture. It can be a little overwhelming, if you’re not expecting it."

Ah, Hax replied. Yes, it’s…it’s… It’s what, she thought? Amazing? Magnificent? Wonderful? It was all of those things. The maelstrom of olfactory sensation was pounding in from all sides, and she found it difficult to focus. Strange, she murmured at last.

The fellow smiled. A southlander, he said. It was a statement rather than a question.

Hax was taken aback. Yes, she replied, blinking rapidly, in an attempt to clear her head. Yes, I…how did you know?

Instead of answering, the man nodded towards the city. Come along, he said. We’re blocking traffic. He reached up, scratched her mount’s jowl affectionately, then took the bridle strap in one hand, tugging the creature into motion.

Hax was about to mouth a warning – Torris was battle-trained, after all, and likely to bite – but held her tongue. The fellow seemed to know what he was doing, and her warhorse appeared willing to follow him. Maybe he’s half-drunk on flower-scent too, she thought wryly.

They rejoined the flow. The fellow walked beside her horse’s head, guiding it like someone who was familiar with animals. The great charger seemed content enough to be led, so Hax did not interfere. She did, however, catch the man glancing back over his shoulder at her, and frowned slightly.

Noble, the fellow was too obviously thinking; maybe even one of the Duodeci.

He saw a young woman, barely past her majority but obviously familiar with her panoply, and at ease in the high-cruppered saddle of a warhorse. She had all of the characteristics of one of the nobler branches of the Third House: a patrician brow, midnight hair, eyes of brilliant emerald. Pale skin, if a little burnt by wind and sun; and regular, even delicate, features. And a confident bearing, he thought shrewdly. Someone used to having their least whim observed as law.

Not whims, he revised mentally a moment later; commands, maybe, but not whims. She looked like someone accustomed to exercising her discretion as often as she exercised her hereditary rights. It was an interesting thought. Hair’s a little odd, too, he thought absently. Where most ladies of the noble houses had straight hair, and arranged it according to the dictates of magnificent, often preposterous, fashion, this one’s locks, while as long as any, were a confused, tangled mass of curls. No noble bint he had ever seen would’ve tolerate such disarray.

The final detail – it could hardly have escaped his notice – were what appeared to be a pair of odd tattoos: a double half-moon, executed in dark-blue ink over her left eye, and another double half-moon under it. That seals it, he thought, shrugging. No daughter of the Duodeci would mark her face in such a way. Not permanently, at any rate. It just wasn’t done.

Then he caught her eye – a chilly glance, punctuated by a raised brow – and realized that she had been observing his scrutiny. He turned his attention hastily back to the road.

Nettled by the man’s none-too-subtle inspection of her features, Hax snapped her reins lightly. He obediently let go of the bridle. Slowing his pace somewhat, he fell back by her stirrup. She held Torris to a slow walk, so as not to outdistance him.

Your pardon, the man said after a moment, glancing up at her. I’m neglecting my manners. Allignus Leto, of Starmeadow.

Orkarel Hax, of Joyous Light.

The fellow blinked, eyes widening. "Any relation to the mighty Fineleor, domina?"

She shook her head, smiling. None at all. I simply chose it to honour him. An moment later she added, "And don’t call me ‘domina’. It’s ‘Hax’."

My apologies. A worthy choice, the man replied, nodding. I didn’t mean to pry.

She chuckled. Think nothing of it. I get that question all the time. It’s my own fault; I should have chosen a less renowned moniker.

She took a deep breath, felt the forest-scent begin to overwhelm her again, and coughed slightly to clear her head. The man glanced up at her in concern; she waved a dismissive hand. What do you do in Starmeadow, Allignus? she asked, changing the subject.

The man held up his hands, palms facing away from her. She could see that, in addition to being marked with a fine intaglio of white scars, they were calloused, and very strong. Smith, he said briefly. "It’s why I didn’t fear this fine fellow. I’ve shoed many of his like.

Although, he continued easily, I’m a tool-crafter by trade. I also do work for the city, from time to time. Even for the palace.

Indeed? she asked politely, wondering why he had mentioned that.

Once only, he qualified. And nothing special. Part of a gate mechanism. Finicky work, but most rewarding.

Hax blinked. Rewarding? In what way? she asked, perplexed.

Allignus glanced back up at her. It hadn’t been repaired in generations. I was working with gears and travellers wrought before the Darkness. He flexed his fingers, clearly remembering the experience. It was like touching history. An honour to mend it.

I can understand that, Hax thought to herself.

And you? the man asked. What of yourself, Orkarel of Joyous Light?

Hax shrugged. This was one area where the truth would definitely not do. "Latronis est," she replied easily. A sell-sword. Although, right now, an out-of-work one.

No wars, then? he jested.

Not at the moment. And I’m not complaining, Hax replied soberly.

What brings you to the capital, if I may ask?

Messenger duty, she said.

That, at least, wasn’t a lie. She thought of her father’s letter, tucked into the lining of her scrip, and sealed with means both mundane and arcane. And of his instructions to deliver it to her uncle. And only to him.

The man reached up and scratched Torris’ cheek again. "Humble service for one who bears the aulensis," he remarked absently.

Hax reached over her shoulder and touched the protruding hilt of the great sword self-consciously. She’d known that it would raise eyebrows, particularly her aunt’s. But there was no chance that she would have left Sylloallen’s gift behind. It pays the bills, she answered, her voice cold.

They continued in silence for a few moments before Hax, regretting her tone, spoke again. Your pardon, countryman. It was fatigue, not rancour, that spoke. I’ve been riding for a week. My shoulders ache, my backside feels like a pounded beefsteak, and I’d give an eye for a bath.

I took no offence, the fellow said immediately, grinning up at her. I know exhaustion when I see it. Or smell it, he didn’t add. I frequently see it reflected in my quenching tub.

May I ask you a question? she asked. He nodded. How…

…did I know you were a southlander? he interrupted, smiling.

Yes, Hax said. My accent? she asked, a trifle self-consciously. I’ve been told it’s noticeable.

Hardly. Melodious, rather, Allignus replied, somewhat too gallantly she thought. "No. It was your horse. Equus bellator austrinus. He patted the animal affectionately again. You grow them big on Eldisle. He’s beautiful."

Yes, he is, she replied, suddenly intent. "But you were not speaking about my horse. You were speaking about me. You called me a ‘southlander’. She leaned towards him, bending over in her saddle. How did you know?"

The man looked slightly embarrassed. Well, he said slowly, and remember, I’m unarmed… he added, smiling hopefully.

Hax glared stonily back.

Ah, very well, Allignus sighed. "It was your reaction to the Hortum." He waved a scarred hand, indicating the ordered forest garden all around them.

Reaction? You mean, because I was…what, dazed, by it?

No, the man corrected. That happens to everybody. It’s what came after that, that piqued my curiosity. You called it ‘strange’.

"It is strange, she murmured, glancing around at the regimented ranks of trees and flowers. She took a cautious sniff; the great wall of fragrance was still there, poised to break over her like an avalanche. It’s unnatural."

Precisely! the fellow crowed. "That is the difference! In the south, you work, you build, you grow, you live, within the confines of what nature and the world offer you. Here, he indicated the vast expanse all around, here, we take those things, and remake them to suit our needs, our desires. He paused for a moment, then added, Our whims."

I don’t think it’s bad, Hax protested. Just… her voice trailed off.

‘Strange’, he said helpfully.

How about ‘different’? she suggested, smiling.

Yes. Different, Allignus said pensively. That’s a useful lesson, Orkarel Hax of Joyous Light, new-come to the Meadow of Stars. Folk are different here. He tapped her boot with a blunt fingertip. You’d do well to remember that.

Hax shook her head in wonder. A blacksmith, and a philosopher too? she asked, her tone mocking him gently. Is your metal-craft as complex and nuanced as your arguments?

Not at all, he replied, chuckling. When I work with my hands, the results are simple and beautiful. It is only when I try to work with my poor, feeble head that the outcome is so twisted and brittle. He glanced obliquely up at her. "You should visit my shop, and view my wares. It’s in the angiportus statera, near north-end."

Hax raised an eyebrow, and the fellow coloured instantly. He laughed to mask his embarrassment – a little too loudly. For all my flaws as a thinker, he protested, "I’m a competent armourer. A latrona such as yourself would doubtless be interested in what I have to offer!"

Enough, Hax laughed. You have my word, Allignus, smith-crafter of Starmeadow. I will visit you, if my duties permit. If only, she added with a wry smile of her own, so that you may continue my instruction in how we rude folk of the south differ from the sophisticates of the capital.

♦

"Mirabile defensor!" Hax breathed. Her voice was choked with awe.

Yes, it’s quite something, isn’t it? Allignus nodded agreement. Two centuries I’ve lived and worked here, and I’m still struck and stunned every time I come home.

The scent-garden of the Hortum had marked the last of the sheltered vales outside the southern hills surrounding the city proper. The great stone-way left the trees and soared over the verdant knolls, passing between increasingly frequent buildings of cunningly worked stone, and traditional tree-dwellings woven into the branches of the broad maples and oaks. Like a meandering brook, the road flowed through them, wandering left and right of the slope – until, at last, it broached the line of hills. The final trees lined the top of the crest. It was as though the elves – who loved trees, at least in word and in song, above all other things – were loathe to allow nature to interfere with a visitor’s first glance of the greatest and most ancient of their cities.

Hax paused on the summit, awestruck. She remembered to give her reins a twitch, moving aside and onto the lush grass that lined the high road, in order to allow the ever-thickening flow of travellers to pass unhindered while she goggled like a yokel.

Allignus joined her. A thoughtful man, he remained silent, leaving her to savour the first few moments of wonder in the tranquillity of her own thoughts.

At first, Hax had difficulty accepting the scale of what she was seeing. Eldisle was hardly a backwater, and Joyous Light no flyspeck; and she had seen great cities before. But the sheer expanse of Astrapratum astonished her.

The river vale was ten miles across if it was a yard, and easily twice that from north to south – and the city filled it. Emerging from a cleft in the hills, the river flowed briskly southwards, splitting into two branches far upstream and rejoining further down. The two arms of the great flood formed the island upon which the oldest and mightiest portions of the city lay – including her destination. She could see its pennoned towers gleaming in the afternoon sun.

The ancient defensive works surrounded the island: towering walls, black and brooding, looming like shadows above the bustling blue of the river. Slender towers, silent and adorned with glistening argent spikes, sprouted every hundred paces or so, leaning far over the waters – a potent guard against invasion.

Those towers have stood since before the Gloaming, she thought giddily. Fineleor, and Yarchian, and the Argent Three walked there.

By the holy mother, what wonders and terrors they must have seen!

Beyond the guard towers, the spires of the old city soared higher still. The island, she knew, was in reality a great rock that had stood in the way of the flood, forcing the river to surround its immovable mass. Astrapratum had begun, some threescore centuries earlier, as a simple fort upon that rock; a tower of guard, erected so far back in time-shrouded antiquity that its foundations were lost among the stones of later constructions. That fort – the citadel of some long-forgotten tribal chieftain of the elvii – had weathered every assault, every blast of war, every foul machination that the minions of Bardan had been able to devise.

It had defied all foes. And so, when Bræa had come to earth, and took Ciarloth to mate, making him High King of all Harad, it was only natural that they would place their hall upon that rock, and build their citadel around the hall. In time, the whole of the great city had, in effect, sprung up around the Holy Mother and her descendents.

Bræa’s offspring had dwelt for centuries in peace and plenty. Her grandson, Tior – the first wizard-king of Harad, called ‘the Mighty’ for his miraculous achievements in wielding the Art Magic – had greatly expanded the palace and the city proper. Such was his fame and power that there had been no need for further defensive works until the following generation. Not until Tior’s son betrayed him.

The black walls and the razor-fanged towers had been built by that son, whom the elves now called Xiardath the Usurper. Their foundations had been laid to defend the city – not against the forces of the Uruqua, who had so plagued the elvii in the Age of Making, but rather against his own people, the scions of the First and the Second Houses, that had refused to acknowledge his suzerainty. These, the greatest of Bræa’s descendents, did not take kindly either to his rebellion, or to his subsequent tyranny. They abandoned him, and he raised tower and wall to prevent their vengeance, and his own overthrow.

He was not the trusting sort, Xiardath; nor should he have been. But, Hax reflected, as the Halpinya say, he turned out to be holding the sword by the sharp end. He should have been looking within the walls, rather than without; for, having betrayed his own father to eternal exile beyond the walls of the Universe, stolen the Filigree Throne, and purloined the Crown of Stars, Xiardath was in turn betrayed by his own ill-borne son. In the fullness of time, Biardath, black-skinned, white-eyed and fiend-borne bayed his father, slew him, and fed him to the white wyrms. A sad and ignominious end for Tior’s get – even for a traitor.

The sight of the ancient walls, heavy with their bloody cargo of treason, murder and terror, brought the old, half-forgotten tales back to her. Hax felt a chill trickle down her spine. Too much history, she thought gloomily. The city reeks of it.

Allignus had been watching her, and saw her face go from wide-eyed wonder to thin-lipped distrust. You get used to it, he reassured her quietly.

What’s that? Hax asked. She hadn’t been listening.

You’re thinking that the city has seen too much blood, he replied, or some other such gloomy thoughts. He crossed his arms and stared fixedly at the soaring towers. I feel the same way, sometimes.

Then he sighed, shrugging. But it passes. The Lantern still shines; the trees still bloom. And the wine tastes fine after a long day’s walk. There are flaws, yes, but also beauty here; beauty enough to make the heart ache.

Nothing to be done about it in any case, I suppose, Hax murmured. It’s stood so for a long, long time. Defeated all besiegers. Defied all foes.

More’s the pity, the smith said pensively.

Eh? Hax glanced down at the man. His expression was at least as fierce and dismayed as her own. How do you mean?

Allignus pursed his lips. Defeat can be a powerful cleanser, he replied slowly, as if thinking carefully about his words before releasing them into the world. Purges the soul, as it were. Makes for a new beginning. He glanced up at the Elf-girl. His face was grim. Too many victories, Orkarel of Eldisle, he said firmly, and you start to think that you can only do right. Defeat makes you think about what you might have done wrong.

His gloomy tone seemed to lift Hax’s spirits. Have you done much wrong, Allignus, philosopher-smith of Starmeadow? she asked, gently mocking.

The man snorted laughter. Have not we all? Reaching up, he grasped her stirrup, and caught her eyes. The afternoon sun glinted redly in his pupils.

His voice turned sombre, even grim. I speak now in seriousness, Orkarel of Joyous Light. Citizen to citizen, if you like. There was an urgent intensity in his voice. "I know not whither you are bound, but you should know that, in Astrapratum, it is said that the kind word masks a lie, and every smile hides a false face. He lowered his voice, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. This is especially so at the Palace, if your path leads you there.

"Trust yourself, latrona. And none else."

The smith’s chilling words stayed with Hax as they progressed into the valley and approached the outer walls. They reflected her mood. She was not looking forward to this visit.

Hax had many fond recollections of her uncle, Landioryn. In her childhood, he’d been a regular visitor at her father’s siege in Joyous Light, both as a casual traveller, and latterly as the Queen’s envoy and commander-in-chief. She’d sensed a kindred spirit in her aunt’s lifemate. He was a daunting specimen; at more than seven hundred and fifty summers he was barely middle-aged, but retained all of the vigour and urbane dignity that had made him a skilled warrior, a respected general, and a fearsome diplomat.

But there was a certain restlessness behind the façade. Hax sensed it, sensed that he felt stifled by the stultifying rigor and fixed, immutable patterns of the courtier’s life. Perhaps she was more sensitive to such sentiments because she felt the same way herself.

She recalled dining with her aunt and uncle during a visit years earlier, and feeling comforted that, of the dozens of richly-garbed courtiers lounging and feasting about the marble tables, only she and her aunt’s lifemate seemed out of place.

Or perhaps, she admitted with wry self-perception, I only like him because Sylloallen has always spoken so highly of him, and I miss Syllo.

Her aunt, in stark contrast to Landioryn, was not at all to Hax’s liking. Annalyszian was nothing at all like her sister Alrykkian – Hax’s mother. The wretched woman was a socializing flitterby, a congenital gossip and professional meddler who seemed to bear some deep grudge against Hax’s father. Her visits to Joyous Light, whenever she had seen fit to grace them with her presence, had inevitably been tense, unpleasant affairs. And it had only gotten worse after Hax’s mother had vanished. Sixty years ago, now, the girl thought bleakly.

Even though Rykki’s disappearance had occurred during a visit to Annalyszian’s own home, the dreadful woman had somehow contrived to blame Kaltas. Meetings, as a result, were always fraught with tension.

Hax planned to stay close to the Grand Duke, and as far away from his Duchess as she possibly could.

The outer walls, of some rough, gray stone, were less impressive than Xiardath’s ancient fortifications. They were only a dozen paces high, built far more recently; within the last few centuries, during the interregnum of the Hand in Ekhan. They seemed to be less a defensive outwork than an administrative demarcation for the city proper. The rock between the rivers, as it turned out, represented only a tenth part of the city as a whole; on both sides of the flood, beyond the black walls, the buildings, trees, squares and such-like sprawled across the bottom of the valley bowl, climbing its sides like some hungry, creeping predator. The outer walls appeared more than anything to be designed to stem the spreading tide of buildings and people.

The gates were still open when they approached – two travellers in a vast, creeping caterpillar of life that wound far back up into the hills, half inching towards the city, half creeping slowly away from it.

The gatehouse itself was simple but elegant; a graceful tower of sand-coloured stone, decorated with swooping bas-reliefs, a work of art as much as of fortification. If it was guarded, she could not see the guards; and she was equally surprised at the absence of tollsmen or tax collectors.

She considered mentioning her impressions to Allignus; but the swelling throng had taken on a life of its own, and was exuding a continuous, numbing roar that made speech between travellers difficult. Especially if one of them was horsed.

Once beyond the gate, the crowds diminished slowly, as those who were coming to the city from far away gradually found their streets and quit the high road.

Hax scarcely noticed the change; her eyes were elsewhere. Everything about the city fascinated her. The roads, die-straight and perfectly even, were well-worn but also well-maintained. The structures that lined them were equally gorgeous, all the more so as they appeared to follow no common design or even philosophy of construction. Broad buildings, and narrow; high buildings, and low; structures of a dozen different shades of stone and a hundred different shades of wood, with windows of glass or mica or even isinglass, roofs of tile or plank or thatch, sprawling gardens, towering orchards, gleaming orblights, smoking torches, flaring lamps…

It was too much to take in; a welter of sensation, a maddening profusion of sights, sounds and smells that beat in upon her like a hurricane. She found herself sweating and flushed, heart hammering against her ribs, until the slowly waning crowds began to trickle away.

What do you think? So far? Allignus asked. Although he still had to raise his voice to be heard, he no longer had to shout.

Terrifying! she replied, forcing a smile. And wonderful! Although… glanced around. It doesn’t feel as old as it should.

This is the new city, he said, waving idly at the buildings lining the road. Only built since the Sundering, in the last thousand years or so. Hardly time for grass to grow between the cobbles, he added with a grin. Don’t worry, we’ll be at the river wall shortly. You can tell me how old it feels then.

The smith – unsurprisingly, given that he was a resident – was true to his word. As the crowds shrank, they were able to resume their earlier pace.

The darkening sky drove them onwards. Allignus had told Hax that the High Guardsmen locked the river wall gates at sunset. He wanted to reach home that night, and Hax, now that she was within striking distance of her goal, was just as eager to complete her mission.

They reached the river while the Lantern was still a hand’s-breadth above the eastern lip of the valley’s wooded rim.

Seen from the east bank of the Lymphus, the old city was even more impressive. Allignus had advised staying on their present path, as the southeast high road led directly to the Crane Gate, and there was no time to circumvent the metropolis and find another gate before nightfall.

Up close, the river was stunning; a vast, slowly-undulating ribbon of deep blue a half-bowshot wide – wider by far than any river that Hax had ever seen. And this is only the eastern branch! She reminded herself.

The high road led to a narrow bridge – a stone ribbon pointing straight at the fortified island that lay in the heart of the stream. Four paces wide at best, the bridge was divided down the centre by a low wooden railing; traffic approaching the island (there was little) took the downriver side, while departing pedestrians and horsemen, a significantly larger throng, used the northern, eastbound lane. It seemed to be a sensible arrangement to Hax, given the narrowness of the stone way.

A few moments later, as they negotiated the slender span, she realized that its narrowness was intentional – a means of restricting an invader’s access to the island. Should’ve made it meander, then, instead of leaving it straight, she thought, recalling Lallakentan’s sombre lessons on the science of siege craft.

If I were the defending general, she used excitedly, I would mount…

She looked ahead, squinting. The setting sunbeams at her back helped a little, shedding their powerful light on the vast, razor-peaked tower overlooking the bridge. Above the portcullis, gilt-edged, iron-shod doors stood, shut tight. I wonder what’s behind them? she thought idly. Crossbows? Oil? Something worse?

This is the fortress of the High King, the last redoubt of the Third House, she thought, suddenly chilled. It would be something worse than oil or bows. Much worse.

Unlike the sand-coloured gatehouse of the outer wall, this gate was heavily guarded. Hax counted fully two dozen armed and armoured soldiers, clad in the polished steel cuirasses, peaked helmets, and bright emerald cloaks of the High Guard. She felt a martial thrill when she saw them; these were the cream of the Queen’s army. A private soldier in the Guard was deemed equivalent to an officer in any other force.

Half the troupe was arrayed at rest within the tunnel leading through the tower, leaning, relaxed but alert, on the hafts of their glaives – the Chalybs Altus, the ‘Great Steel’ that Sylloallen had taught her how to ply from her earliest days in the training yard at Joyous Light. The other half were questioning travellers seeking admittance to the old city. This naturally caused a back-log, especially as curfew was approaching. Hax and her companion found themselves at the end of a lengthening line of grumbling, footsore travellers.

Does it always take this long? she asked after a few moments, as the line crept slowly forwards.

The smith made an equivocal gesture. Sometimes, he replied. Usually when there’s a diplomatic visitor. A neighbouring king dropping by to see Her Serene Majesty. Or a fête at the Palace. Or some wit slid a leech into the guard captain’s porridge. He shrugged. Nothing to worry about.

That proved to be her companion’s only inaccurate prediction. As they reached the front of the line, Allignus waved her deferentially ahead. Hax spurred Torris lightly, reining up just as she reached the line of Guardsmen at the head of the bridge.

Their chief – a serious-looking fellow, unhelmeted, with wisps of grey at his temples – looked her up and down, and said tiredly, No weapons.

Hax blinked. I beg your pardon? she replied, astonished.

The old soldier repeated himself. No weapons, miss. Nothing longer than a hand-span blade. He motioned at the great sword and bow slung across her back. Disarm, please.

Hax frowned at the unexpected request. She had never before been asked to cede her arms; it simply wasn’t done. Then she kicked herself mentally. You’re not in Eldisle anymore, idiot. No one here knows who you are.

She was at an impasse. She had to reach her destination – but there was no way, no way in this life, that she was going to relinquish her mentor’s blade.

Try tact, the Voice warned her.

Why not? she thought bleakly. I’ve nothing to