The Well of Fates

By A.B. Angen

The Drethlords came to Arith looking for someone. They swept over the nations like a flood, but never found her. Now there are strange stirrings among the ruins of the oldest power in Arith. Elaina Tristarine and her uncle may have what the invaders seek, but will it be enough? As rumors spread of revolution and civil war, loyalties are tested and chaos takes root across the Empire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.B. Angen
• Release date: Oct 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301097999

A.B. Angen

A.B. Angen lives in Austin, Texas.

Book preview

The Well of Fates

Book One of the Arithine Chronicles

Dedicated to Michael, Allison, and Charlie.

Copyright 2012 Ali Berget Angen

Smashwords Edition

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The Well of Fates

The day has come, and sun will rise

The dawn is here, the Falcon flies.

From Well of Fates all hope has fled

Its waters turn from blue to red.

The Neverseen draw souls to fill

The Evermore, and they draw still.

The River now rolls like a flood

Its waters turn from blue to blood.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1: The Wildspring

Chapter 2: The Wilds

Chapter 3: The Telling

Chapter 4: The Beginning

Chapter 5: The Training

Chapter 6: The Sisters

Chapter 7: The Flight

Chapter 8: The Collapse

Chapter 9: The Finding

Chapter 10: The Snare

Chapter 11: The Father

Chapter 12: The Leavetaking

Chapter 13: The Meeting

Chapter 14: The Cage

Chapter 15: The Forgotten

Chapter 16: The Falcon

Chapter 17: The Winter

Chapter 18: The Tent

Chapter 19: The Storm

Chapter 20: The Calm

Chapter 21: The Name

Chapter 22: The Ride

Chapter 23: The Strangers

Chapter 24: The Star

Chapter 25: The People

Chapter 26: The Walk

Chapter 27: The Histories

Chapter 28: The Harbor

Chapter 29: The Ship

Chapter 30: The Bracelet

Chapter 31: The Wine

Chapter 32: The Garden

Chapter 33: The Order

Chapter 34: The Commander

Chapter 35: The Assassin

Chapter 36: The Light

Author’s Note

Preview: Book Two

PROLOGUE

Summer, 1413 of the Fourth Aeon

The brisk morning breeze that came down off the mountains had not yet been caught by the sun. It raised chills on Hetarth’s skin as he made his way through the tunnel to the city. The passageway was more crowded than he’d ever seen it, but no one was speaking. The only sound was the rush of water down the channels beside the roadway, carrying snowmelt down to the sea. It sounded like the whisper of frightened voices.

He had never thought it before, but now the tunnel seemed a terribly foolish idea. Why make an easy path from the sea to the city, why eliminate the natural defenses of weather and height? Of course, before this day, who had ever thought of defending Hasile from invasion? No one had imagined this day.

Wide-eyed children clung to older hands, but they did not call out or cry. Mothers carried infants, fathers helped mothers, and the greatest people in Arith fell back to their stronghold in the mountains. Behind the towering peaks of Hasile they would regroup and dig in to meet the foes that had swept the coastal cities. And behind Hasile, the rest of Arith would wait.

It was not the mountains that the nations trusted, but the people. Hasile was neither as vast as Amanheld or Loth Daer, nor were its people fearsome warriors, like the Southlanders, but they had never lost a battle. They were Creators.

Everyday casters could touch the four pillars, Earth, Fire, Air, and Water. Together the pillars supported the waking world above Evermore, the land of spirits. All physical things were made from the four pillars of the world. A caster could change the way the pieces came together, rearrange them into something new, build a thing up or take it to pieces. But they were limited to what they could reach, and many casters were incomplete—unable to touch all four.

Creators, though, could make something from nothing. They did not need to take Fire from another source to light a lantern, they simply drew a web of it in the proper shape, and there it was.

Some thought that this was the greatest power, but Hetarth disagreed. Life was far beyond anyone’s grasp, as they discovered so disastrously in the Shadow Wars. Also out of reach were the higher things that exist among men and between them, such as Love, Hope and Truth.

But Hetarth could not marvel at the wonders of the higher world. Not today, the first day in history to see the Creators lose in battle. He could only try to keep the memories from running before his eyes, new memories that seared themselves into his soul.

The ships had been nothing more than a dark smudge on the horizon. Behind them, storm clouds towered over the waters. How we cheered when they made it safely to port! His jaw clenched.

Better for us if they had all been drowned. Like black shadows those swordsmen danced among us. Simple black steel against Fire, but still they cut us down like wheat. And simple casters brought the port down around our ears. Simple casters! What has happened? What do they bring against us? Will our power abandon us, or has it begun already?

Fearful questions seemed to billow larger with each step, like the charcoal grey cloaks of the fifteen who led the charge. And so we flee into the mountains, we run to Tarquendale and the Naedar, our nine strongest. They will know what we face. They will decide if we hold the city, if we fight or if we flee.

His blood pounded in his ears, but Hetarth Aridal was not ready to fight, because he was not ready to die. A new image grew in his mind to outshine and overpower the horrors he had seen along the coast. Savana. Her golden hair in a braid wrapped around her head like a crown, grey eyes glinting when she smiled. He would find her, make sure she was safe. Perhaps she and the other instructors would take the children deep into the caves around Tarquendale, out of harm’s way.

At the mouth of the tunnel, a light gleamed. It did not lift Hetarth’s mood. It was a thin, frail light, as if it were too weak to finish the day. When he and his sister Esania were growing up, she called these moth days, as washed out and feeble as the cave moths that beat their ragged wings against the windowpanes in Tarquendale.

Esania was all grown up now and had started a family of her own with Lythan Tristarine. At least Hetarth did not have to worry that they had been at the coast when the ships landed.

They would be staying close to the city—their brand new baby girl was to be presented to the Naedar and given her name in a few days. If the Naedar even have time for such things. That niece of mine might be a little late getting her name, if this keeps on.

The black thought lowered his mood and with it his eyebrows descended over his grey eyes. If this gets so bad they have to delay the Naming, I hope Savana and Esania will already be out of the city and safely—

Hetarth began to walk faster towards the unconvincing light of the valley ahead. The thought he could not finish would not fade.

Safely where? Where else is there to go? If Tarquendale falls, where else would be safe? If the stronghold of Hasile is not strong enough, what is? Who could stand where Guardians fall?

Another cold shiver ran over his skin, but it had nothing to do with the breeze.

Brother Dracen eyed the ruined city around him without pleasure, but also without pain. It had been a pretty little place, tucked between the ocean and the mountains. Piles of steep-roofed houses perched along the ridge, with cheery flower boxes blossoming under every shuttered window.

Destroying it was exhausting, but not because it was well-fortified nor well-defended. All of its defenders were dead or gone. They were not prepared to fight at all, certainly not against the unfamiliar weapons the Brothers brought with them.

It was hard to flatten the place because every time he saw a gabled roof he thought of how she had wanted that house on the cliff with the red gables. It was hard when he saw a butterfly struggle through the dust of the crumbling buildings and remembered her standing in the meadow the week they met, laughing among hundreds of them. It was just hard.

Everything is, without her. No doubt that is why the Empress selected me for this mission. What else could she do with the powerful young weaver who became an unexpected widower? At least this way she does not have to frown over me each day and fret over my lost potential.

Dracen looked down and saw a delicate hand reaching out from beneath the rubble, perfectly pale and permanently still. He wrenched his eyes away,

Between the black-coated Watchers that dotted the shore, he caught sight of his Brothers. The word made his lips tighten. He’d always preferred his blood brothers to any of the Brethren of Weavers. We may have fought, but we did it with our hands and to each other’s faces.

Dracen watched one of the guards stoop to grab something off the road. The man shined it on his robes before pocketing it. Brother Monren glared at the guard out of the corner of his eye, a half a step too slow to make off with the whatever-it-was.

I suppose it is not so very different, Dracen thought. We still fight over trinkets; they’ve just gotten more valuable. And we still fight for mother’s affections, if the Empress can count as Mother.

He searched the shore for the others, fifteen in all. There were Valmeran and Abelmedar, coming ashore in a rowboat that no one was rowing. Its prow cut through the waves, driven by Water and Air. They had been in charge of protecting the fleet from counterattack, but there had been no need. With them was Brother Carinat, gazing up and down the coastline with interest. He wasn’t much help in a fight, Carinat, but he was perhaps the most learned man in the whole of the Asemaline Empire.

Brother Cianfar marched across Dracen’s path, scowling at the corpses of women and children and shooting dark looks at Firstborn Keravel.

The Firstborn was their leader, appointed by the Empress. Brother Cianfar was not fond of him and made it perfectly clear that he found Keravel’s methods dishonorable. Cianfar thought wars ought to be waged between warriors—women, children, and towns were unfit targets. His mercy and his willingness to be unpopular for it were admirable, but Dracen thought it poor strategy.

He scanned the scene for Keravel. As suspected, he was surrounded by a number of others, all doing the precise opposite of Cianfar. They hovered around their leader, smiling and congratulating. Yes, well done, Firstborn. We’ve proven ourselves strong enough to crush a tiny, unprotected hamlet. Well done.

There was Brother Halyar, hardly able to move his bulk over the piles of rubble. And the blood brothers Sirean and Segarin—they smiled slyly at the destruction. Dracen swallowed the urge to spit in their general direction. Those two were slimy little snakes, quite pleased with Keravel’s leadership.

Brother Rechane was also pleased. With Keravel in charge, he would get a far greater outlet for his perverse pleasures than he would have under Cianfar. Of course, if Cianfar were in charge, Rechane would not survive the day. Cianfar probably had the right idea there. The Empress should never have let him out of her sight. A twisted appetite like his needs a firm hand, and Keravel isn’t interested in reining him in.

Higher up the hillside, Brothers Gervaine and Monren, friends since childhood, were standing together. They were solid, hard-working weavers, but thoroughly unimaginative. At that moment, Dracen could read the boredom on the faces of the young Brothers standing beside them, Losdar and Terlum.

Soon they’ll learn that being bored is by far the safest way to be in a war. Bored and victorious, what more could a man ask for? Better than hungry, or bleeding, or beaten.

Before he could finish his perusal, Brother Menkar came striding up, long legs jolting him through the debris.

Brother Dracen! He called, clapping him on the back when he drew near enough. Dracen tried to keep his unhappiness off his face. Don’t touch me, you lunatic, he growled in his head.

Of all the caster-generals in the Brotherhood, Dracen was most suspicious of Menkar. The others were easy to understand, for good or ill. But Menkar was either very far removed from his senses or terribly clever and hiding it behind a mask of insanity.

A fine day for the Empire, a beachhead on the Eastern shores of the continent! He smiled, puffing out his chest. The Empress, may she be preserved in the skies for all time, will be pleased.

Dracen nodded, unconvinced that this was as wonderful an occasion as Brother Menkar imagined. The other man marched off, happily oblivious to Dracen’s doubts. If anyone believed in the Empress’ expansionist propaganda, it was Menkar.

Personally, Dracen had begun to wonder if they were overreaching, coming to this side of the world. Arith wasn’t like the islands of the Great Sea—it was huge, heavily populated, and had never been subject to the Empire.

And it was home to the Order of the Guardians, a society of Wielders. He shook his head. The prophecy at the heart of this whole mess was not nearly as clear as everyone thought. But faced with revolt, the Empress needed to take drastic action, so she’d set them off to sea at once.

He wondered if she ever bothered to ask the Firstborn what he thought of the prophecy she urged him to bring to fruition. Did she know that Keravel’s interpretation made a dangerous plan twice as grim? Parts were simple commands, like:

Seek the lost things in the East,

born of blood that’s valued least.

There were some lines after that that he couldn’t recall, but this was the critical passage:

The ripples in the Well begin,

trace them back to find the way

To reach beyond the things of Men

and touch the very light of Day.

Seek now for the things of old,

awake once more to ride the wind,

Greater still than steel or gold,

to spin the Gift and bring the end.

To killing stone the Falcon flies,

and sends to night the ones who train.

She’ll leave her mark upon the skies,

she’ll kiss the hand that held the chain.

The night is dark, the Dawn is new,

the stars are weak upon the sea.

Bring the Falcon, strong and true,

or lose this land to memory.

Everyone agreed it was about finding a Wielder in the East that could save the Isles. And the Isles did need saving: each year the seas rose higher, and each year the crops did the opposite.

Dracen shook his head. If not for that shortsighted fool that was the last Empress, they’d still have had Wielders in Asemal and this mission would never have been necessary.

That woman nursed a jealous hatred for the Wielder’s power, though they served her. When the Stranger arrived from over the sea with a Gift that would destroy them, the old Empress had put the Orb in the hands of self-righteous mobs, and one by one the Wielders were hunted down.

Most did not even fight—they would not resist the Empress’ will, even if her will was for them to die. Now there was only the Brotherhood of Weavers, simple weavers who could manipulate anything and create nothing.

The hordes got what they wanted: an end of the Wielders. Now, of course, they needed a Wielder to save them, but they only had the Brothers. The Orb was just a rock to a weaver—it called for creation, beyond the shallow powers of the Brotherhood. It was shocking to see the effect it had on Wielders, though. There was a brilliant flash of light and then the Wielder touched by the Orb would be nothing but a body crumpled on the ground.

Dracen looked around at the evidence of the Orb’s success: piles of bodies, almost all of them Wielders. A few corpses wore the all-black uniform of Watchers, the special bodyguards of the Empire that the Empress sent with them. Normally, Watchers were reserved for the Empress, her family, and—before they’d been destroyed—her Wielders. This was such an important mission, though, that each of the Brothers had been assigned a Watcher, plus another thirty, besides.

A frown furrowed Dracen’s forehead. They say that whatever Wielder isn’t killed by the Orb is the one we are looking for. But what if they are wrong? It will be Asemal all over again—we kill them all and when none remain to save us, we realize our mistake.

His eyes were drawn to the Firstborn again, who embraced this method of finding the Falcon. No doubt he means to be the hand she kisses once she’s been trained.

Dracen glowered at the man. And no doubt he means me and the others to be the ones killed in the process. The thought didn’t disturb him much—how could it, when his wife already awaited him in the night sky? He just didn’t like Keravel, and he didn’t like being a pawn in a game that was doomed from the start.

Hetarth was swept into the plaza in a flood of humanity. It was more people than he had ever seen in Tarquendale, even for the Sanhalia on Watch Night.

Have you heard? The Naedar have called in every copy of the Book of the Broken to destroy them—they’re calling for volunteers to take the original and hide it! A man next to him gossiped.

Hetarth shook his head, but could not halt a worm of doubt. Surely not! . . . but if they’re sending the Book out, they expect Hasile to fall? They fear the Tarquendale will be taken?

Suddenly, he was desperate to get to his sister’s house. Savana will know to go there—Esania is our closest family in the city, and there’s room for everyone. He elbowed through the milling crowd. It was going to take forever to get across the plaza. By the time he’d battled his way to the fountain, he was not in a mood to go around.

Hetarth ground his teeth. This would have been the ideal moment to freeze the water and walk across, but he had never been very strong in Water or Fire. Besides, it would be ostentatious.

He usually did not mind his weaknesses, because there was not a Guardian alive who could match him at Searching the Winds. Someone once informed him, not realizing who he was speaking to, that Hetarth Aridal could find anyone, anywhere. In this mess, I’d rather be able to fly.

Growling about crowds that milled like herds of idiot cattle, Hetarth jumped up onto the lip of the fountain and ran. It was an enormous feature that engulfed the middle of the plaza, but today running like a madman along the edge drew hardly any attention.

When he careened through the doorway on the far side, someone shouted to slow down, but Hetarth had no time for that. He leapt up the stairs to the fifth level and burst through the door of his sister’s house without knocking.

Esania and Lythan were standing at the window, watching the courtyard. Neither was surprised to see him in their doorway—they’d seen him running across the fountain. Hetarth looked them over. Both wore heavier clothes than the weather called for and stout leather boots in place of slippers. They had packs on their backs and little Elaina was strapped to the front of Lythan’s chest.

The invaders have taken the port cities, He announced unnecessarily.

We know. We’re leaving Tarquendale. Lythan replied. We only waited to say goodbye.

Where will you go? Tarquendale is the most easily defended city in the mountains.

We’re leaving Hasile. I’ve been having bad dreams. Esania explained. Always the same: I’m looking into the well. The water goes dark. Then the buckets come up full of blood. Darkness is coming, Hetarth, not just to Hasile, but to all of Arith. The Naedar know it, they are sending the Book away. It’s the first time they’ve done that since the Lost Times.

Then where will you go? He asked again, frowning between his little sister and her husband. If nowhere is safe, then why not stay here. Lythan shook his head.

We’re getting out the mountains. I always thought of them keeping our enemies out, but now it seems more like they’ll trap us in. If we’re wrong, we can always come back. The grim lines on his face said how unlikely he thought it.

Hetarth didn’t know what else to say. There wasn’t anything—they’d made up their minds. In fact, they’d made up his mind, too. He’d go find Savana and together they’d get out of the city.

Good luck, he said, stepping forward to catch Esania in a crushing hug. May the Truth go beside you and Peace watch your door. He muttered into her hair.

May the Truth stay beside you and Peace watch your door. She responded softly.

Lythan threw out his right hand to catch Hetarth’s forearm in a last handshake. Hetarth stooped down to tickle his niece under her chin. The baby girl cooed and wriggled, trying to escape him. He ruffled her thin, golden-brown hair.

I’ve got to find Savana. Perhaps I will see you again in the flatlands. He said, smiling. Esania and Lythan exchanged a look.

What is it?

Savana came by, Esania began, She was going to the Naedar to volunteer—

—to volunteer for what? Hetarth frowned.

To take the Book. Lythan explained, watching him as if he were an unruly horse that might bolt.

Hetarth’s frown deepened. She’s volunteered to hide the most valuable possession of our people. If this really is an invasion, if Hasile really fell . . .

A chill swept across his skin. He spun on a heel and rushed back out the way he’d come. Maybe if he got to her in time, he could talk her out of it. Maybe she’d just come with him instead. Esania called out a last goodbye that Hetarth barely heard before he plunged back into the low roar of the crowd in the plaza.

He would never see his sister again.

Winter, 1413 of the Fourth Aeon

Hetarth had been searching the mountains for days, looking for some sign of survivors. The invasion had come so quickly, so completely, he’d never even made it past Tar Haviel. And of course, after the front line had swept past, he doubled back. It was impossible, but he was hoping for some sign, some clue that Esania and Lythan were still alive. And Savana.

He had gone to every town he knew. There was no one there. It seemed like a dream, walking through deserted cities. Already the woodlands around the towns were going wild. He’d seen a number of creatures roaming through the mountains, former pets and emboldened predators alike.

He came to the end of the pass that wound through the mountains from Tar Haviel. Looking down, he caught sight of a neatly planted field down below, but he could not tell what the crop was. Nonetheless, planting meant life—he set off down the steep ridge into the valley below.

It was dusk when he arrived at the field and stopped. The neat rows he had seen from above were not shrubs or new saplings. This was not a field or an orchard. It was a cemetery, row after row of white stone pillars with names etched down the sides. Not all planting means life. Weary, he walked closer, wondering what friends he would find this time.

Some he had known well, some he only recognized the family name. Silveren Miriel, a quiet woman, strong in Air and Water. Elberon Ethoniel had a booming voice that used to echo around the caves. Wulfric Briand, son of the famous historian of the Shadow Wars. Robwyn Leigth, whose older sister was a well known Seer and a good friend of Esania, and there, on the end of the row: Savana Monara.

Hetarth sank slowly onto the grass before the pure white stone, one shaking hand reaching out to trace her name. When his fingers brushed the stone, the facing crumbled away. Hetarth cried out, lurching forward to stop this final destruction, but there was nothing to be done. The stone powdered away as if it were nothing more than spun sugar.

Beneath it was a symbol surrounded by a circle. Hetarth knew the mark, he’d seen it before—every Guardian had. It was the seal on the face of the Book of the Broken.

He moved closer, tracing the sinuous shape. Curious, he leaned to the side and touched Robwyn’s headstone. It stood firm. Only Savana’s was like this. Maybe it was a sign, a message meant for him, because who but he would touch this stone? Maybe she still lived!

Hetarth peered at the message. One symbol, surrounded by a ring, carved into stone underneath the dust of Savana’s pillar. He blew the dust out of the way and saw for the first time the little symbols carved outside the ring: a lily beside a round tower at the lower right edge, an eye at the lower left, and at the top, a fang with a droplet hanging from it. He squinted and moved closer. There, in the middle of the drop, was the symbol of the Book again.

He sat back on his heels. A lily and tower, an eye, and a fang. What was it supposed to mean? The lily, he might know. Both he and his sister were named after things that grew in the mountains: Esania, a lily, that she might grow lovely and sweet, and Hetarth, a pine, that he might grow tall and strong.

So Esania and a tower. He thought he’d seen it before, a stout little structure with one window high up the side. It wasn’t Guardian architecture, certainly. He puzzled through all the places he’d been in the lowlands. Donlin was all timber frame structures, not stone like the tower. Nolte had a tower, but he thought it was a square one. Lotriel had a thousand buildings more impressive—this would not have stood out there. One little window, high up. Round. It was a watchtower. Who would need a watchtower in the lowlands?

River towns usually had the best view from on the river, either on a bridge or the deck of a ship. Maybe on the coast? But those towers often had lights on the very top, or mirrors—something to warn passing ships. Frustrated, he moved on to the eye. It was a peculiar shape: very deliberate lines, perfect circles in the center. Like the tower, it looked familiar.

Of course it does, it’s meant to be a message for you! Doesn’t do any good if you can’t read it. He tilted his head to consider the eye, and it hit him. It was the fountain, the fountain in the center of the plaza in Tarquendale, seen from above. Tarquendale, bottom left. He glanced over his shoulder to the southwest. Somewhere in the distance were the ruins of the capital city. The circle was a compass.

What is to the southeast, where is Esania? Conde’tair! The tower was in Conde’tair, it is how they keep watch on the Darkwood to the south, with all the bandits. Hetarth took a deep breath. Esania was in Conde’tair. They made it out of the mountains.

Tarquendale to anchor the map, Conde’tair to show me my sister. There was only one other thing I want: Savana. He peered at the fang at the top of the circle.

North. A fang. It must mean Tor Felvek. In the old language of Cavilnor, that meant Dragon’s Teeth, a city named for the Northguard Mountains. And somewhere in the hinterlands, somewhere by the dragon’s fang is the Book, and where the book is, Savana will be.

Hetarth rose to his feet. Savana had been alive after the invaders moved out of the mountains, she’d come back here to draw him this map. No one else could have done it. She knew Esania, she knew he’d been to Conde’tair and would recognize the tower. And she knew he’d follow her to Tor Felvek.

To the ends of the earth, until I find the Book, and then I will have Savana.

The bones of the fortress were taking shape on the shores of Lake Rinwal. Brother Dracen thought it a foolish place for the capital of the Empire. It was neither very central nor very easily defended. Of course, Keravel didn’t bother with either of those concerns. He neither wanted to interact with the people of Arith nor feared their disloyalty.

Brother Dracen could not help but turn south, because beyond that horizon lay just the sort of people who would need constant observation. Keravel held the foolish belief that people, once broken, were easily subdued. He doesn’t understand just how hard some people will fight if you take away everything they’ve got to lose.

After the fall of Hasile and the massacre of the Guardians, the other nations of Arith had fallen swiftly in line, each king or queen or council quickly swearing to the new Empire. All but one.

The southernmost nation, Antral, had refused to surrender. Dracen had been eager to meet them on the field of battle, secretly hoping to die with honor in the melee, but there was no need. Keravel ordered the other nations to march, so the armies of Amanheld, Jernal, Newythe, Loth Daer, and the rest went south to destroy the last free people in Arith.

Only Antral’s nearest neighbors in Fiandar had refused to take part. Keravel had punished them soundly, but nothing could compare with what was done to Antral. Fiandar was only crippled. Antral was ruined beyond redemption. The border forts were razed, forests burned, and farmland sowed with salt. In the end only the Thousand Lances remained around King Archaron, an island in a sea of enemies. The men who finally cut them down wept as they did. Like Hasile before it, Antral was broken.

Keravel had taken a number of prizes from his vanquished enemies. From Hasile, he had absconded with three or four complete libraries. We’ll likely never see Carinat again, now he has more books than he could read in a lifetime, Dracen mused. But of course, the two greatest prizes of Hasile had escaped.

First, the Orb had not been defeated: the Falcon had not been found. This didn’t seem to trouble Keravel as much as it should. As I suspected, he is less interested in the Falcon than using this mission as an excuse to set himself up as the Eastern Emperor.

The second greatest treasure of Hasile was something Keravel learned about after the invasion was complete. In nearly every book they opened, another book was mentioned. It appeared to be the complete index of everything the Wielders of Hasile knew about what they called the pillars. The Brotherhood knew them as the Elements: Wind, Water, Fire, and Stone. It was called the Book of the Broken. Keravel had been enraged to discover that all copies had been destroyed and the original hidden.

He’d managed to hunt down the Guardians tasked with hiding it, but none had given away their secret. Dracen was impressed by their dedication. Few withstood Keravel and Rechane working together.

Antral had not fared so well. Its two greatest treasures were firmly in Keravel’s clutches. First, there were the Silver Swords. Antralians fought with two single-edged blades, and the matched swords of the King had been captured on the field of battle.

Dracen curled his lip. Does it still count as a battlefield conquest if the King has already given them to his sons? Does it really count if you take the father’s weapons from children? Because the swords were not the most precious thing Keravel had seized. He had taken the children of the fallen King and Queen as hostages to dissuade further revolt in Antral.

The twin boys were so alike Dracen couldn’t tell them apart. They were spirited, but Keravel had leverage to make them do whatever he wished: he had their little sister. A scowl darkened Dracen’s face.

He didn’t like keeping children as hostages, but he could see the need to keep the heirs of the throne under close supervision. But there is no need to keep the girl. And the stars only know what her life will be like here.

That wasn’t true. Dracen knew exactly what her life would be like, surrounded by men like Keravel. Her life will be a waking nightmare that will only get worse as she ages. She was a pretty girl. Dracen didn’t want to think about it. Hopefully we will have found the Falcon and left this place long before she comes of age.

Sighing, the Drethlord looked back at the skeletons of the towers that rose up beside the lake. Still a damned foolish place to build a fortress. At least it’s on the water. It would be hard to besiege that way.

CHAPTER 1

The Wildspring

One clear night as summer died, a young woman stepped into the busiest inn in the shadow of the Western mountains. To the east the low plains of Amanheld swept all the way to the Haldon Kai, the Mountains of the Wall that divided Arith in half. To the south, the Wildspring River wound its way into the hills of Emon’s March, then to the sea. To the north and west, the mountains of Hasile loomed, blanketed in thick forests. Few ever went there. Strange creatures were loosed in the Invasion, things not seen by men in generations. Of the towns that had dotted the roads leaving Hasile in its days of glory, only Tar Haviel survived. That was why the inn was the busiest for miles—it was the only inn for miles. It didn’t hurt that Master Edmons, the innkeeper, stocked the finest wine that could be found.

The young woman that came to the inn, though, had not come to drink. Her honey-brown eyes searched the room, dismissing the tables she came to one by one. There were rough-skinned farmers, leaning against the boards on heavy elbows, tired from fighting earth and rain and other things no man could defeat. In the back were a collection of youths, faces flushed as they watched their dice bouncing across the wood. They were playing for buttons, but that never dimmed their enthusiasm.

Broad shouldered men with rough voices to match rough clothes seemed to take up more space than their single table—miners down from Cavilnor in the North. Few ever made it all the way out to Tar Haviel, but it wasn’t unheard of. Cavilnese miners often eyed the mountains of Hasile, wondering what treasures lay under the stones even if they could not get to them. Two serving girls moved between the tables, cleaning and refilling drinks, flashing dimples under bright eyes as they worked.

At last the girl’s gaze came to rest on the table of