The Eyes of Landor

By Connie A. Walker

Book 2 of the Wolkarean Inscription

Katrine of Banur never wanted to be a Warrior or a Sorcerer. Now she must learn to be both.

"Katrine stopped abruptly. Spinning in a circle, she tried to see past the shadows of the trees and shrubs surrounding her. Suddenly, three Neophytes lunged at her from behind a thicket of evergreen bushes. Their auras were awash with anger and jealousy and loathing. Katrine's stomach flipped over. These three were the ringleaders of a gang that had been harassing her ever since she started her studies. The boys formed a triangle around her."

Although Katrine has been at the Landorian Training Compound for only a few weeks, already she must fight for her life. As the seasons pass, she faces hostility, distrust, betrayal, capture, and imprisonment by her enemies.

If she is to survive, she must overcome her insecurities and fears, accept her destiny without reservation, and master her complex set of powers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Connie A. Walker
• Release date: Aug 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476238845

Connie A. Walker

Connie A. Walker’s interest in fantasy developed before she started grade school. Her sister, June, who was five years older, practiced her reading skills by reading to Connie. June introduced her to The Wizard of Oz, Peter Pan, The Arabian Nights, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and hundreds of fairy tales. Connie fell asleep every night with visions of elves and ogres, sorcerers and enchanted lands, flitting through her mind.When her sister started junior high school, the reading sessions dwindled to a few times a week. Suddenly Connie had difficulty sleeping. She began having nightmares. She dreaded going to bed.One night, when Connie was very tired and having difficulty falling asleep, she pretended that June was reading her favorite story to her. She drifted off to sleep and had pleasant dreams. After that, when she went to bed, she reviewed other tales she had heard, often embellishing the action and adding characters.Within a short while, she was making up stories of her own. That was when she decided to become a writer.When Connie was seven years old, she won an annual writing contest sponsored by her elementary school. Students in first, second and third grades were eligible to enter. She was the first first-grader ever to win. Her story, “Stop, Look, and Listen,” was about a dog who acted as a crossing guard.Throughout elementary and high school, Connie made her homework assignments enjoyable by being creative. When doing research papers, she presented the facts within a fictional frame story or a play. Essays were often written as satires, ending with unexpected twists. Connie considered everything she wrote as a prelude to a career as an author.While getting her Bachelor of Arts degree in theatre at Brigham Young University, she had four original plays produced: a one act comedy and a two act drama (both of which were contest winners), plus two musicals. Later, she had two other one act comedies produced. After graduation, she worked as a technical writer, a graphic artist, and a public relations specialist. In the evenings, she wrote short stories, plays, poetry, and outlined ideas for fantasy novels. She filled a filing cabinet with unpublished manuscripts. A single mother of two, Connie often found her writing time shunted aside by such things as chicken pox, science projects, strep throat, baseball games, stomach flu, and school activities—all those things associated with parenting.In the meantime, she had to make a living.As her children entered the teenage years, financial demands increased, and Connie felt the need to develop a career that provided a predictable and adequate income. She attended the University of Utah and earned a Bachelor of Science degree in psychology and a Master’s degree in social work. She has been employed as a foster care caseworker, a psychotherapist, and a clinical programs manager.Now retired, she has finally found enough uninterrupted time to pursue her goal of becoming a professional writer. Her children’s book, Timmy and the K’nick K’nocker Ring, is a fantasy about a young boy who is transported to a world where his special talents are considered magic. It took first place in a local writer’s contest, Children’s Literature category, and was the grand prize winner as well.The Spire of Kylet, a young adult fantasy, is the first book in The Wolkarean Inscription Trilogy. Katrine is a fifteen year old girl who thinks she has her life all planned out. But, after performing an act of heroisn, she is adopted into a tribe of wizards and receives their powers. Suddenly, she is thrust on a path toward a new destiny whether she likes it or not.Connie is currently working on a second Wolkarean trilogy.

Book preview

Book Two of The Wolkarean Inscription

by

Connie A. Walker

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Connie A. Walker

Discover other titles by at http://www.ConnieAWalker.com

Timmy and the K’nick K’nocker Ring

THE WOLKAREAN INSCRIPTION

The Spire of Kylet

The Eyes of Landor

Triumph at Serpent’s Head

These books are also available in print editions from the author's official webpage.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

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 return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work

of this author.

Cover art by C. Walker

Cover design by Bud Spencer, SUMO graphics

Map by David R Christensen

This book is dedicated to my brother, David R. Christensen.

PROLOGUE

In the highest tower at Serpent’s Head, Elnid-Kyeh opened a small wooden box and removed a pouch made of black silk. When he upended the bag, a crystal pendant on a long golden chain dropped onto his waiting palm.

Wheezing from exertion, Elnid-Kyeh slid back in his chair, pulled a fringed shawl around his shoulders, and rested while he fingered the crystal’s glimmering facets.

His thoughts drifted to the battle at Marlett’s Cleft.

Had it only been a few weeks ago? Or a month or two?

During the fight, Katrine of Banur had wounded him with the enchanted spire of Kylet. Its magic had siphoned away almost all of his power. Even after absorbing the death throes of his own soldiers, he had barely had enough strength to teleport home.

That damnable spire!

The injuries caused by its sharp blades would have been enough to put him to bed from blood loss. With the addition of its magic, he also had to deal with fevers, chills, swoons, and periods of confusion. Although his Healer said the worst was over, he was still taxed by even the simplest of movements. He was feeling each of his three hundred years.

If the Most High had not provided him with an assistant, war preparations would have come to an abrupt halt. Thankfully, Rylinjer had accepted responsibility for many routine tasks.

Elnid-Kyeh turned his head to one side so he could see himself in the mirror on the wall. His ivory skin, although always fair, looked sallow and unhealthy, and his dark blue eyes were dull. His shoulder length silver hair had lost its luster. Nevertheless, he looked younger than Rylinjer, who was probably still in his early twenties. He was handsomer than the boy too.

Possibly it was Rylinjer’s shaved head and protruding ears that made him so homely and old looking. Also the russet tunic and matching hose, which all novitiates of Rulianthabah-Sabbaton wore, gave his skin an odd, mottled appearance.

Shortly after returning from Marlett’s Cleft, Elnid-Kyeh had given Rylinjer instructions for preparing this complex incantation. Certain chants had to be recited at noon and midnight from one new moon until the next in order to insure the spell’s infallibility. Last night had completed the cycle.

"If you don’t call on Rulianthabah or one of the lesser demons, Rylinjer said as he took four copper saucers from a cupboard, how do you control the magic?"

"Through the natural elements," Elnid-Kyeh answered.

Squatting down, Rylinjer pulled a box of candles from beneath the table. He raked through them with his fingers. Then, frowning, he made a pile of white candles on the floor. After several minutes of searching, he stood and held up a blood red candle. He looked over at Elnid-Kyeh for approval.

Elnid-Kyeh gave him a smile and a nod, even though the candle’s color made absolutely no difference in this ritual.

Rylinjer began looking at the labels on jars of chemicals. Why do you prefer elemental forces? He set down one bottle and picked up another. They cannot compare with the power of a demon, who by his very nature is a magical being.

"There is less risk, Elnid-Kyeh answered. As you know, if one of your priests is not strong enough to control the demon whose powers he summons, the demon can break free and consume him."

Rylinjer nodded solemnly. That’s as it should be. The demon lords serve only the worthy.

"Still, Elnid-Kyeh said, not everyone is willing to take such a gamble. How do demons judge humans? How can a man establish his worthiness?"

"It’s a matter of faith," Rylinjer told him.

"Of course," Elnid-Kyeh said, refusing to be drawn into a religious discussion.

Rylinjer set two small jars beside the other items he had collected.

Even though Elnid-Kyeh was weak, he needed to take advantage of Rylinjer’s preparations. Otherwise, he would have to wait another month while Rylinjer repeated the whole series of noon and midnight recitations.

Pushing out of his chair, Elnid-Kyeh looped the golden chain over his finger. He dangled the pendant directly above a dot on the floor, recited an incantation, and made a complex series of gestures in the air. The crystal quivered a moment and then inscribed a shimmering line that ran true north and south. Holding the ornament over the dot again, Elnid-Kyeh chanted and made several more gestures. This time, the pendant marked east and west, creating a large X that flickered like cold fire.

Rylinjer placed a copper saucer at the tip of each line.

"For north, the chemicals, Elnid-Kyeh said, and for the south, soil." Rylinjer measured a tiny amount of gray powder from one jar and

sprinkled it onto the saucer at the northern point. He put a handful of dirt on the saucer directly across from it.

"East, water, Elnid-Kyeh continued, west, the candle."

After Rylinjer poured water onto the right-hand saucer, he situated the red candle on the left.

With a point of his finger, Elnid-Kyeh lit the wick.

As Rylinjer scooped a bit of powder from the second jar, he asked, Now that you’re ready to begin, will you tell me what the spell is supposed to do?

Elnid-Kyeh slid the pendant and chain back into the silk bag.

"As I showed you on the astrological charts, he said, Quorten, my patron star, veered off course last spring. I believe its deviation was responsible for the humiliating defeat I suffered at Marlett’s Cleft. I intend to scry the past to identify the cause."

"Impossible, Rylinjer exclaimed. Not even the Demon Lord Rulianthabah can reveal details of a past he did not experience himself. Large-scale events, perhaps, but a specific moment in time, never."

"Demonic magic is not the only way, Elnid-Kyeh said. Watch and learn."

He stood overlooking the cross on the floor and spread his arms wide. He nodded at Rylinjer, who tossed the final measure of powder onto the northern saucer. The chemicals combined to create a puff of smoke.

With his face to the heavens, Elnid-Kyeh called out:

"Air, water, land, and fire,

"Your assistance I require.

"Although the Book of Time is vast,

"Turn its pages to the past

"When Quorten’s path was somehow changed

"And all its portents rearranged.

"Reveal the truth, I now demand,

"Fire, water, air, and land."

The X flared and the room went black.

Gradually pinpricks of light speckled the darkness until they mimicked the night sky, creating familiar patterns of stars and planets.

"There, Elnid-Kyeh said to Rylinjer as he pointed to a bright dot. That is Quorten. As you can see, it is headed straight for the Lord and His Servant constellation. If it had stayed on course, in a little less than two years, it would have crossed the Flying Chariot right there. He traced the trajectory with a fingertip. That sequence would have assured me a successful campaign to reclaim the monarchy.

"Last spring, however, Quorten suddenly veered toward the Hero’s Sword on a direct path to the Royal Crown constellation, opening the door for my plans to be thwarted by a single individual. Stars do not arbitrarily shift directions. I must know what caused the change."

Since his birth, when Quorten first identified him as the person who would conquer this land, the stars had guided Elnid-Kyeh.

At first the charts had been completed by his Shokai tutors, who took precise measurements and performed complex mathematics to calculate celestial movements. After the Most High recalled them to Shokareen, because a rebellion had turned into full-scale war, Elnid-Kyeh had been forced to learn how to plot the stars’ paths for himself.

For several minutes, Elnid-Kyeh gazed unblinking at the artificial night he had created.

Then without warning, a new dot of light appeared in the northeastern portion of the miniature sky. It was one of those rare stars with a feathered tail that seemed to sail across the heavens at random. It was racing straight toward Quorten.

A collision was imminent.

Even though Elnid-Kyeh knew his patron star had not been destroyed, he sucked in a horrified breath when he realized what might have happened. If his star had been obliterated, all his hopes and dreams and ambitions would have shattered with it.

As the pinpricks of light drew closer together, his hands clutched at his stomach. He fought a wave of nausea.

The feathered star grazed the underside of Quorten and nudged it from its predetermined course.

"Remarkable, Rylinjer whispered, looking at Elnid-Kyeh with astonishment. What does it mean?"

"I am not certain, answered Elnid-Kyeh. Perhaps my destiny is bound to both stars. Although Quorten is now moving toward the Hero’s Sword, the smaller star, which I could not see with the naked eye, will intersect the Weeping Maiden. If the Hero’s Sword constellation represents my upcoming conflict with the Warrior of Four Bloods, then surely the Weeping Maiden must indicate her defeat." He flipped his hand over and banished the vision.

Light returned to his tower.

Elnid-Kyeh grabbed several astrological books from the shelves and shoved a couple toward Rylinjer.

"Help me search. Someone, somewhere, must have written about the significance of a stellar occurrence of this type."

Chapter One

Katrine of Banur stopped abruptly.

Turning in a circle, she tried to see past the shadows that lurked among the trees and shrubs surrounding her.

Nothing. No one.

Apprehensively, she began walking again.

She was on her way home from the archery range, taking one of the paths that coiled through the back of the Landorian Warriors Training Compound. Even though the day was cold, perspiration dampened the neck of her cloak from the brisk walk. Once again she cursed the Neophyte rule that required her to earn the privilege of riding her own horse by passing First Level Proficiency Tests in weapons, basic hand-to-hand defense, and physical endurance.

It wasn’t fair.

She had been training at Landor for scarcely a month. The only Warrior- type skills she’d brought with her were archery and horsemanship. She had no experience with other weapons, or hand-to-hand combat, or labyrinths, or the kind of leaping, climbing, dodging, and ducking necessary on the obstacle course. She had a great deal to learn before she could even request testing.

At first she took comfort in her academic strengths. Her father had tutored his children at home, and he had been very demanding. She was behind her classmates in terms of military knowledge, but they were behind her in general scholarship. She thought that should even things out, but all it did was make her unpopular.

If Warlord Leeds had quietly enrolled her in a few Neophyte classes, maybe she would have had the chance to make some friends. Instead, he had held a general assembly of all Warriors, Neophytes, and staff in the Training Compound and announced that she was the Warrior of Four Bloods.

He couldn’t have made her more conspicuous if he had painted her red. In truth, he had done the equivalent by requiring her to wear a Warrior’s black uniform. Neophyte uniforms were brown and trimmed with vivid piping, a different color for each Neophyte Level. Wearing black in the middle of all that brown was like a sign: Here I am. I’m different. Hate me.

And most of her classmates did. They hated her because she was the first Wolkarean to come to Landor in over three hundred years. They hated her because they didn’t know how to treat her. They hated her because her title frightened them.

They didn’t understand that her role was as confusing to her as it was to them. The Warrior of Four Bloods was not actually a title. It was a rank, a rank higher than the Warlord, but a rank that she still had to earn.

In the meantime, she wasn’t an officer. She wasn’t a Warrior. She wasn’t even a real Neophyte.

She was merely a girl who had spent most of her days working on her father’s ranch and all of her nights dreaming about becoming a Recorder. Now, because being a Recorder was not an option, she was at Landor trying to figure out who and what she was.

She didn’t know much about being a Wolkarean. She’d only found out that she was one a few weeks ago. Still, she was certain of one thing: as long as she paid attention, she could recognize evil and danger, no matter how attractively they were camouflaged or how well they were hidden.

She sensed them both right now. She froze.

Her eyes darted back and forth.

Who? Where?

Suddenly, three Neophytes lunged at her from behind a thicket of evergreen bushes. Their auras were awash with anger and jealousy and loathing. Dropping her bow and quiver, Katrine shrugged off her cloak and assumed the defensive stance she had learned in her hand-to-hand class.

She had been exposed to so many new faces since leaving home that it took her a moment to place the boys and remember their names. When she did, her stomach flipped over. These three were the ringleaders of a gang that had been harassing her ever since she started her Neophyte coursework.

They all had green piping on their brown uniforms, which meant Third Level, making them a year or two older than she was, at least sixteen or seventeen.

Members of their gang had slashed the cinch on her saddle during horsemanship, hidden her weapons in archery and blade-work classes, kicked her chair out from under her in the luncheon room, called her vulgar names, tripped her, and slammed into her as if they couldn’t see her.

Today in archery, they had attached a cord to her targets, and every time she released an arrow, they jerked the string. Somehow, one of them always managed to distract Arms Instructor Fohler at the right moment, so all he ever saw was the result: Katrine missing the mark.

You think you’re so fraggin’ great, snarled Lennos, a chunky, dark haired Neophyte who wore a perpetual sneer. Well, you’re not.

How did you ever convince the Warlord that you’re the Warrior of Four Bloods? scoffed his short friend, Rilk. You’re nothing but a liar and a cheat.

You’re certainly not a Warrior, Jonan, a freckled redhead, said with a smirk. You wear the black uniform, but you’re a fraud, a nothing.

They formed a triangle around her.

Katrine knew very little about fighting, but even if she had known more, there was nothing she could do.

Captain Asher had lectured her repeatedly on her duties and responsibilities. He said specifically that he’d better not catch her arguing or fighting with her classmates. Being the Warrior of Four Bloods was the same as being an officer, regardless of her training or lack thereof. Whatever the circumstances, he told her, she must always be an example of restraint, discipline, and self-mastery, no exceptions.

The Warlord’s word might be law for the rest of Landor, but Asher’s word was the law to her. Not just because he was a Captain and she was an ignorant trainee. Not just because he was older and more worldly-wise than she was. Not just because he had authority and power.

It was because, in the few months she had known him, he had become the rock that supported her.

When she had learned she was the Warrior of Four Bloods, it was Asher who had held her in his arms and let her cry on his shoulder. It was Asher who had patiently described her Wolkarean senses to her and taught her the beginnings of control. It was Asher who had instructed her in Landorian hand signals, explained the hierarchy of the Warriors, and pointed out the collar studs that denoted each officer’s rank.

Before the battle with Elnid-Kyeh at Marlett’s Cleft, Asher had recommended to the Warlord that she be allowed to join the archers. Then he had seen to it that she served under Eltin of Yallon, the best bowman in Kareand.

Everything she knew about Landor and Warriors and Wolkareans, Asher had taught her.

He knew the Neophytes were making her life difficult, and he told her rather sternly that she had to find a peaceful way of handling the situation.

As the Neophytes closed in, Katrine visualized what Asher’s reaction would be if she were caught fighting. His lips would draw downward into a harsh frown. His dark eyes would fill with exasperation and disapproval. His booming deep voice would snap, Haven’t I taught you anything?

She couldn’t face it.

She would simply rather die than disappoint Asher. Summoning all her willpower, she let her muscles relax. She would make him proud. She would not fight.

As the boys rushed forward, she tried to cover her face with her hands. The one named Rilk grabbed her arms and pinned them behind her.

Lennos and Jonan punched her with their fists. Gritting her teeth, she resolved not to cry out.

They hit her again and again, laughing and swearing and shouting encouragement to each other.

They’ll get bored, she told herself as red and gold sparks fluttered behind her closed eyelids. There’s no challenge in this. They’ll stop soon.

One of the boys switched places with Rilk, so he could have his share of the fun.

The beating accelerated.

Her knees began to quiver.

I will not fight. I will not fight. She repeated it like a mantra. For Asher, I

will not fight.

She pitched forward.

Someone grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. She lost her balance, stumbled. A sharp rip tore across her scalp, as the strand of hair was pulled loose.

Tears sprang to Katrine’s eyes. She did not make a sound.

I will not fight. I will not fight.

A blow to the abdomen rocked her.

She crumpled to the ground and curled into a ball, hurting more than she ever had before.

She dissociated, separating her mind from her body. She thought about the first time she had seen Asher. It had been in a dining hall at Plains Springs when a cutpurse had tried to make off with his money pouch. Grabbing the thief by the scruff of the neck, Asher had shaken the little man until Katrine’s teeth had rattled in sympathy. The thief returned the wallet, and Asher sent him on his way without turning him over to the town peacekeepers.

Katrine could almost laugh, remembering how Asher had frightened her back then, before she had gotten to know his gentler side, before she had seen him smile.

Pain brought her back to the present.

The Neophytes stomped on her with their heavy-soled, cold weather boots.

Fire shot up her left arm as it was simultaneously kicked from two directions. The bone snapped.

Clamping her jaws together so tightly she feared she would grind her teeth into powder, she refused to give the Neophytes the satisfaction of hearing her scream.

After the boys delivered their final blows, they ran away, chortling joyously over their easy victory.

Katrine lay on the cold ground, a heap of oozing blood and excruciating pain.

The gray underbellies of clouds in the west became smudged with melancholy streaks of purple and maroon. Inky shadows spread out from buildings and bushes and trees, draping the ground in a shroud of darkness.

The temperature plummeted.

Every breath Katrine took filled her lungs with lightning bolts of fire. No one was likely to find her in this isolated spot before morning. She would freeze solid before then.

Already the cold was numbing her hands and feet.

Get up, Katrine, a demanding voice sounded inside her head. Will you surrender before the battle has begun?

Kylet? she murmured. Blood that had pooled in the corner of her mouth trickled down her chin, making her think of the slimy trails that snails made.

In a corner of her mind, she thought she must be delirious.

Katrine! Kylet called her again.

Next to Asher, Kylet was Katrine’s favorite Warrior, even if he was nothing but a ghost now. Three centuries ago, he had been the last Wolkarean Warlord. They had met last summer in Echo Hall, one of Kareand’s places of power.

Get up while you still can, Kylet ordered her.

Katrine felt like wailing, but her voice came out a whisper. I’m all broken up inside. I’ll die if I try to stand up.

You foolish girl, you’ll die if you don’t. Get to your feet right now.

Tears welled in Katrine’s eyes. She hurt so much she didn’t have the courage to willfully subject herself to more torment.

I said, NOW, Katrine!

She started to cry. I can’t move.

Yes, you can, Kylet said softly, caringly. You’re strong. You’re the Warrior of Four Bloods. You can do it.

Cautiously she shifted position.

A terrible slash of pain jabbed her insides. It was so sharp, she would have screamed if she’d had enough breath. Instead she whimpered like a thrashed puppy. That image of helplessness made her angry. The anger gave her strength.

She pushed against the ground with her heels, dug the fingernails of her right hand into tufts of brittle grass, and scooted one agonizing inch after another toward the nearest tree. She hadn’t known a human could survive such agony.

After an eon of effort, she draped her good arm across a low branch and pulled herself into a half-sitting position.

Help me, tree, she begged irrationally.

Groaning and creaking as if caught in the wind, the branch trembled and seemed to lift her. She let it hold her while she swung her right arm above her head and snagged the next limb.

Incredulously, she managed to haul herself to her feet.

Blood trickled in warm streamlets beneath her uniform. Perspiration chilled her forehead. Her right eye wouldn’t open. Her left arm hung uselessly at her side.

Around her, the world tilted and swayed. She clung to the branch while she leaned forward and vomited.

I’ll never make it to the infirmary. What now, Kylet?

There was no answer.

Without any expectation of finding help, she extended her mind and reached with her Crennese senses, sweeping the area in a circle like the needle of a compass.

She touched a familiar mind.

Joy and hope swept over her like a summer breeze out of the southern desert.

Is it possible? Can he be so near?

She patted the tree and whispered a thank you. Then she staggered from one tree to another until she reached the closest building. She slumped against the stones and sent her awareness inside.

Yes. she wept, Asher is here.

Gently she laid her lips to the wall. Then letting the building support her weight, she edged around a comer and began the torturous journey toward the door.

Chapter Two

Asher advanced and swung the dull-edged practice sword in a rapid succession of movements, forcing Tyler, his youngest brother, to retreat. They took a moment to catch their breaths, and then they danced around each other again, swinging, dodging, and making a loud clank each time their blades met.

Within the privacy of his protective visor, Asher grinned. Tyler had gotten good enough to give him a real workout. Once the boy’s muscles finished maturing and hardening, he was going to be a formidable fighter.

Behind Tyler, Asher saw the door to the practice hall open. No one was scheduled this evening, so he kept an eye on it. It might be the Warlord or a messenger looking for him.

When a ragged, blood-smeared shape staggered into the room, Asher thought of the walking corpses he had read about in horror stories and started to smile. One of Tyler’s friends was playing a trick to interrupt their practice.

He froze. Not one of Tyler’s classmates.

Katrine! Her face was bruised and swollen. Dark clots matted her fine blond hair, and crimson trails flowed down her cheeks and neck. She clutched her stomach with one arm while the other dangled crookedly at her side.

Asher ripped off his helmet and dropped his sword as he ran to her. She toppled.

He caught her before she hit the floor. Tyler, he yelled, find a Healer. Go! The boy sprinted from the room.

Who did this to you, Katrine? Asher cried. Tell me what happened? She opened her mouth but no sound followed.

Her body went limp.

Powers Above, Asher moaned to himself, can’t we even keep her safe here?

With Katrine cradled in his arms like a baby, Asher started for the door. Before he reached it, it was flung wide, letting in a gust of chilly air.

I met them down the street, Tyler said breathlessly.

Warlord Leeds entered. He stopped abruptly and stared at the bundle in

Asher’s arms.

Master Healer Rulla, plump and wrinkle-faced, pushed past him. Set her on the bench, she told Asher.

He obeyed.

Mumbling the words of a spell, the Healer passed her hands a few inches above Katrine’s body.

She has been beaten by three individuals, Rulla said. I sense them but I can’t see them clearly. Her nose is broken and so is her left arm. There is some internal bleeding. She held her hands over Katrine’s chest and abdomen. Her spleen is ruptured. Her collarbone is cracked and so are three ribs.

From a pouch that had been hanging on her belt, she took out a small packet, removed a pinch of powder, and dusted it over Katrine while reciting another incantation.

She is in stasis now, Rulla said, but the spell won’t last long. We need to get her to the infirmary.

What happened, Captain? Warlord Leeds demanded.

I don’t know, sir, Asher answered. She passed out before she could tell me. Archery was her last class this afternoon. Maybe Fohler knows something. He grabbed his coat and draped it around Katrine. I’m taking her to the infirmary. Tyler, get the door and then look around outside. She must have lost her cloak somewhere, and her bow.

For several hours the Healers worked on Katrine.

When they finally put her to bed, she was swathed in row after row of bandages. Uncovered patches of skin were tinted with blacks and blues and purples. Her face was almost shapeless with swelling.

Pacing back and forth in her room, Asher waited impatiently for the sleep spells the Healers had used to wear off.

No matter how Leeds punishes them, Asher told himself, flexing his fists behind his back, it won’t be enough. But if I can find them first, I’ll even it out.

Reaching the wall, he spun around and started back toward the door. As he passed the foot of the bed, he glanced at the Warlord, who stood near the headboard with Master Healer Rulla.

Asher remembered when Leeds’s hair was as black as raven wings. After he became Warlord, it began showing strands of gray. Now, ten years later, there was almost as much gray as black. He was a tall man, broad in the shoulders and narrow in the waist, still fit and lean despite being in his fifth decade. Currently, an angry glower dominated his face.

Over by the window, Arms Instructor Fohler rubbed his hands on his trousers and looked young and pale and frightened. He had been advanced to Warrior only a few years earlier and hadn’t been teaching long. He could easily have missed warning signs of trouble that a more experienced instructor might have caught.

A soft groan sounded.

In a flash Asher was at Katrine’s side, perched on the edge of the bed, one of her hands in his.

Her left eye opened a crack. The right barely twitched.

Warlord Leeds turned to Master Healer Rulla, and his voice came out a

gruff whisper. Can she talk?

Maybe for a few minutes, she answered, then paused and added, but you might want to wait until you calm down. She needs rest and quiet. You’re likely to upset her.

Asher, the Warlord growled in an undertone, maybe you’d better do this. I’m so damn fraggin’ mad, I can hardly think.

I’m no better, sir, but I’ll try. Asher gently patted Katrine’s hand. I know you sense the feelings of people around you, Katrine, so I hope you realize we’re not angry with you. We’re angry because this happened here at Landor, and we weren’t able to prevent it. You understand that, don’t you?

Moisture sneaked around Katrine’s enlarged eyelids as she nodded weakly.

Good girl, Asher said. Now tell us what happened.

Katrine’s voice broke as she tried to form words with her battered lips. Warlord Leeds and Arms Instructor Fohler both moved closer so they could hear.

They jumped me after archery class, she said in a weak murmur. They held my arms and hit me. When I fell, they kicked me.

Who? asked Asher. Who jumped you?

Neophytes. Feebly, she squeezed Asher’s hand, and her voice dropped so low Asher moved his ear right up to her mouth. I did what you said. It was hard, but I did it. I didn’t fight back.

Asher gasped in horror. Holy Powers, is this my fault?

What did she say, Captain? the Warlord asked quietly.

Asher could hardly collect his thoughts. Had he unwittingly set this up? After all his efforts to help her understand her role as the Warrior of Four Bloods, was it possible that he’d failed this miserably?

His eyes rested on Katrine’s disfigured face. He felt ill.

Rulla laid her hand on Katrine’s brow. She’s feverish. I’m going to give her a potion and put her back to sleep. You can talk to her later.

Don’t go, Katrine said, her fingers tightening around Asher’s.

I’ll come back, he said soothingly. "Right now you need to do whatever

Rulla says."

Tears trickled down Katrine’s temples.

Asher brushed the wetness away with his fingertips. I’ll be back after you’ve napped.

Rulla mixed some powders in a glass of water.

Asher carefully lifted Katrine into a sitting position. He held the cup while she downed the medication.

When he lowered her again, he gave her a reassuring smile.

She tried to produce a similar expression, but her lips were so swollen that they pulled unattractively to the side. Her face twisted into a grotesque, pathetic caricature of itself.

Hatred surged in Asher’s heart. Whoever had done this to her had a debt to pay, and he intended to be the bill collector.

The Healer touched Katrine’s brow and spoke a few words.

As Katrine dozed off, Asher stroked her hand with the back of his fingers. Without thinking, he leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.

Then he stood up, squared his shoulders, and faced the Warlord.

Sir, he said, I suggest we go over to the Regulatory Building and meet in your office. I may have contributed to this, and you’ll need to hear the whole story where you can do some shouting.

Leeds spun on his heel, his expression bleak. Come, he growled. You, too, Fohler.

Chapter Three

Asher had to force himself not to pace as he stood at attention in front of the Warlord’s desk.

He had been a fool not to recognize the danger to Katrine when they had talked about the trouble she was having with her classmates. As a Captain, there were several things he could have done to help her. If he had done any of them, she wouldn’t be lying in the infirmary right now, bruised and broken.

Damn his stupidity!

I want to know what happened to that girl, Leeds said, and I want to know immediately.

Yes sir, Asher answered. He organized his thoughts a moment then began slowly. You know what it’s been like for Katrine since the battle at Marlett’s Cleft. The gossip. The whispers. The conversations that stop when she enters a room.

Leeds nodded. It’s hard for people to believe the Warrior of Four Bloods is a fifteen year old girl. She’s not what anyone expected.

Asher took a deep breath. At first she was embarrassed by the attention. Then for a while she was depressed. But once she had spent a few days in Archives reading about the ancient Wolkareans, her attitude improved. She began to see possibilities.

He kept his eyes focused on a flaw in the wall just above the Warlord’s head. Things changed when she started taking classes with the Neophytes. They have been hard on her. They’ve tampered with her equipment and hidden her weapons, taunted her, called her names, and tried to rile her into losing her temper.

The Warlord’s lips tightened into a thin line. Asher watched it with his peripheral vision. It wasn’t a good sign.

A few days ago, he continued, she told me they had done something else to her – right now I can’t remember what – and she wanted to know what would happen if she took a quarterstaff and started laying Neophytes out. I realize now I mishandled the situation.

Damn it, he hated admitting this. Not just to the Warlord but in front of Arms Instructor Fohler as well. Still, he was an officer. He had to accept the consequences of his actions.

I wasn’t worried about what was happening to her. Why the fraggin’ hell would I be? he demanded defensively. I’d seen her recover during a single ight from a dagger wound, seen her climb Rock Falls while shielding five people with a complex spell, seen her stand against Elnid-Kyeh and wound him.

The Warlord’s eyes squinted half shut and his face began turning red, a sure sign he was about at the end of his patience. Asher clasped his hands behind his back and went on in a calmer tone.

So I told her being the Warrior of Four Bloods was equal to being an officer, and when an officer strikes a Warrior, the punishment is five stripes of the lash. I reminded her that because I beat up those two Warriors after the battle at Marlett’s Cleft, I got five stripes for each offense.

Briefly Asher remembered the sting of the whip. Ten stripes, the most he’d ever gotten at one time. As a Neophyte, he’d received seven with a leather strap: four for sneaking out of his dormitory to go on a dragon hunt, thus missing exams, and an extra three for refusing to tell who had tricked him into doing it. Of course, there was a difference between the strap used on Neophytes and the lash used on Warriors.

But the thought of even a single welt marking Katrine’s back had been more than he could bear. So what had happened instead? He’d set her up to be beaten half to death.

Get to the point, Captain.

"You asked what she whispered right before Master Healer Rulla put her back to sleep. She told me: I did what you said. It was hard, but I did it. I didn’t fight back."

Leeds came halfway out of his chair. Are you saying she didn’t even try to defend herself? he shouted.

Yes sir.

Leeds placed his hands flat on his desk. By the Coils, Captain, he yelled, you did worse than mishandle it. You almost got her killed.

Asher flinched to hear the truth blurted out like that, but it was no more than he deserved.

Yes sir, he agreed softly.

Leeds glared at him a moment before turning to the pale young man standing a few feet behind Asher. Arms Instructor Fohler, what can you add?

Stepping forward, Fohler answered with a quiver in his voice. Sir, I knew the Neophytes didn’t accept Katrine. I knew about some of the pranks, too. But I thought they were just part of the jealousy and competitiveness you always see with Neophytes. Nervously Fohler wiped his hands on his trousers before continuing. The problem, sir, is that Katrine only has to be shown something once – no more than twice – before she has it. The other students know there’s little hope of keeping up with her and no hope at all of surpassing her. Naturally, they resent it.

Fraggin’ horsespit! Leeds slammed the desk with his fist. Didn’t it occur to either of you to report this to me?

Neither man answered. They knew Leeds didn’t expect them to. Since they hadn’t reported, obviously they hadn’t thought it necessary at the time.

I’ll meet with each of you later to discuss your lack of judgment, the Warlord barked at them. Right now I want the names of every Neophyte who tormented that girl. Even the ones you just suspect.

She never mentioned names to me, sir, Asher said.

It never occurred to you to ask, I suppose, Leeds growled with annoyance. Fohler?

I have some suspicions, sir, but if I had been certain, I would have dealt with it. I –

No excuses, Fohler. I want names. If you don’t have them, get them. Talk with the other instructors and put together a list. I want it by the end of the day. Today.

Yes sir.

Sir, Asher said, might we know how you intend to use the information?

Leeds gave him a curt nod. Tonight I’m dining with Regent Laria and some of the High Elders. If the Regent approves, I’ll ask Master Sorcerer Statcher to cast a spell to identify the culprits. The condition Katrine is in, she might be unable to tell us who they were for several days. I won’t wait. I will not have a Warrior, Neophyte, or officer molested like that in Landor. Not while I’m Warlord. Punishment will be swift and as hard as regulations allow. It’ll be tomorrow at noon in full assembly. Now get out of here, both of you. Before they could start for the door, Leeds frowned, making deep furrows appear between his brows. Fohler, I need another word with you. Asher, you may go.

Yes sir.

A frigid wind slapped Asher when he stepped out of the Regulatory

Building and headed for the stable in back.

He felt drained. He didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t want to return to the unmarried officers’ barracks. He didn’t want to go to the officers’ dining hall.

When he felt like this, there was only one place he wanted to be. He saddled his horse and headed for the residential section of the Compound.

Lights flickered behind the curtained windows of the houses he passed. The smell of logs burning in fireplaces filled the air with promises of warmth and comfort.

When he reached a two-storied white house, he dismounted, turned his horse over to a groom, and then without knocking, he pushed open the front door of the Warlord’s home.

Mother, he called. He hung his coat on a peg and crossed to the fireplace to thaw his hands.

Within seconds, his mother rushed into the room, wiping one hand on her apron while she used the other to push a lock of her honey blond hair into the knot on top of her head.

She flung her arms around Asher’s waist.

Most people think the best thing about being the Warlord’s son is getting the best assignments, Asher thought, but they’re wrong. The best thing about being the Warlord’s son is having his wife as your mother.

I thought you’d come home. Then Asher’s mother turned her heart- shaped face up for a kiss, and he bent down and planted one on her forehead. Tyler told me about Katrine. Do you know what happened?

Asher shook his head grimly. Only that some Neophytes assaulted her. Is there anything I can do?

You can feed me. I don’t feel like eating with the officers tonight. Good, his mother said, smiling. "Since your father is dining with the

Regent and Heni is out with Apprentice Torrend again, I’ll have four of my boys at home, all to myself."

Samal and Gerrin are coming?

Yes. I didn’t invite Denniz because Pelli isn’t feeling well and he would’ve brought the little ones. I was afraid they’d be hard on your nerves while you’re worried.

Asher grabbed his mother and gave her a hug that lifted her feet off the floor. How did you know I would come here? I could’ve gone to a tavern and gotten drunk instead.

When his mother was again standing firmly on the ground, she reached up and gave Asher’s cheek a light pinch. If you dealt with your problems by drinking, dear, I would have known about it long ago. Now, go wash your hands and comb your hair. The boys will be here any minute.

Soon Asher sat at the table with his mother and three of his four brothers. His mood had already lightened. This house was the one place in Kareand where he always felt completely comfortable.

What’s the story with your prodigy? asked Gerrin as he passed Asher a bowl of steamed vegetables. Gerrin was a year younger than Asher and generally considered the handsomest of the five brothers. He got his honey colored hair and blue eyes from their mother and his broad shoulders and big hands from their father. He had recently been promoted to Journeyman Recorder.

She’s in the infirmary, Asher said, accepting the bowl and beginning to spoon vegetables onto his plate.

Some Third Years beat her up, said Tyler, the youngest, who was a Fourth Level Neophyte. He was attractive like Gerrin, though taller, and his hair was more of a golden brown. They accused her of cheating at archery practice.

How do you know that? Asher asked, his hand frozen halfway between plate and bowl. Katrine hasn’t been able to speak more than half a dozen sentences.

Sorry, Tyler said with a shrug. He piled his plate with sliced meat from a platter in the middle of the table. If it was supposed to be a secret, it’s too late. The news is buzzing all through the dormitories. Some of my classmates said they heard the ones who did it boasting. But they wouldn’t say who it was, so don’t ask me.

Samal reached across the table to grab a biscuit from a basket. If they’re stupid enough to brag about what they did, he said, they sure don’t know their Warlord very well. They’re in for a rough time when Father catches hem.

Samal, a year younger than Gerrin and a year older than Tyler, was a musician. He played stringed instruments at an entertainment hall in Pardish, where he rented a room. He was dark haired like Asher and blue-eyed like Gerrin and Tyler. He was the shortest of the boys, and his heart-shaped face was the image of their mother.

You think Father will let you deliver the stripes, Asher? Tyler asked. Not a chance. Father’s not stupid. He would know that was murder not unishment. But I hope whoever does it peels the skin right off of them. Quite a comment, Samal said, his blue eyes twinkling, from someone who’s been flogged as often as you have. You lose count, yet?

Asher laughed ruefully. It’s not something you forget. Last month was the fifth, if you include the three times when I was a Neophyte. He pointed his fork at Samal. I’ve always suspected you chose the musician’s life because there are no conceivable circumstances by which you can be flogged. He added almost as an afterthought, Booed or hissed maybe, or pelted with rotten fruit. But not flogged.

How right you are, Samal said, giving Asher a wink. I like my handsome hide too much. That might sound like cowardice, but it’s actually commonsense.

You have a point, Asher agreed, grinning. He always enjoyed bantering with his brothers.

Of course, he was closest to Denniz, who was his elder by only ten months. When he and Asher were youngsters, many people thought they were twins. Same dark coloring as their father. Same general size. Same tendency to get into mischief. Now, Denniz was the finest metal craftsman in Pardish. He was married with two children of his own.

When every serving dish and platter had been emptied and the plates nearly licked clean, the brothers pushed back their chairs. The kitchen staff began clearing the table.

Asher and Gerrin set up a playing board in the front room for a few games of Fox and Hares. As they moved their tokens, Samal and Tyler kibitzed from the sidelines.

Their mother sat nearby with her mending, often glancing up and smiling contentedly.

After three games, Gerrin pushed the board aside in frustration. You always play fox and you always win, he grumbled. It’s not natural. No one can win all the time by being the fox.

At least, you got a few rabbits back to the burrow, Tyler said. The last time I played him, he wiped me out before I had the first hare halfway home.

Want to try again? Asher offered.

Gerrin shook his head. Three losses in a row are enough for one night. Besides, I need to head back to the Recorders School. You coming, Samal?

Guess I’d better before I fall asleep. He covered a gigantic yawn with his long musician’s fingers while he clambered to his feet.

They were pulling on their coats when the front door opened and Warlord Leeds entered, followed by a swirl of snowflakes. He stood with one huge fist planted on each side of his waist. You have a party without me, Meara? When you go off dining at the Regency, dearheart, you can’t expect me to eat alone.

Leeds took several long strides, lifted his wife up off her chair, and gave her a resounding kiss. With five grown sons, as hungry now as when they were small, I don’t expect you’ll ever have a meal alone. But, by the Powers, I should think you’d want one. He re-crossed the room and hung his coat on a hook. Sorry I missed your visit, boys. He clasped hands with his sons who were preparing to leave.

We’re used to it, Father, Gerrin said. Maybe next time.

I guess we could stay a little longer, Samal offered, opening his mouth for another wide yawn and not bothering to cover it this time.

Not tonight, Leeds said. You’re tired, it’s late, and it’s started to snow. You’d best get home. Good night, boys.

Good night, Father, Samal and Gerrin said. Good night, Mother. Good night, dears. Come back soon.

Asher stood and stretched, popping his back. I guess I had better go, too.

Not yet, said the Warlord. I need to talk with you. He glanced at his wife and youngest son. Go on up to bed, Tyler. Meara, I’ll be up later.

As Tyler climbed the stairs and Meara gathered up her sewing, Leeds crossed to a sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine. Want one, Asher?

Yes, thank you. He accepted the glass then went and sat on a chair near the fire.

After drinking in silence for several minutes, Warlord Leeds said, I know who attacked Katrine.

Chapter Four

Asher had just started to take a sip, and he swallowed wrong.

Wine spewed across the room as he gagged then coughed raggedly. After he caught his breath, he demanded, Who?

You’ll find out at assembly like everyone else. As if pulled on a string, Asher lunged to his feet.

Sit down, son, Leeds said, giving Asher a stony glare. "I’ve already had to flog you