The Madness of Hallen

By Russell Meek

Deep beneath the Meil’vohllen Mountains, Hallen the explorer discovered a Stone of al-Din, releasing an ancient power that once controlled the Armies of the Desert East. Yet madness consumed him, for this power was not his burden to bear.

Drawn to her ancestors’ call, Na’ilah, last blood heir to the mind of al-Din has left the desert sands; destined to reclaim control of the Armies of the Dead. She tracked the stone to Brúnn, a city isolated in the mountains of Hejveld, but Hallen’s burden was passed on, and she is not the only one intent on finding the source of al-Din’s power.

For it has come to Ohrl, a young boy in search of adventure, who must now find the courage to claim what Hallen could not. For if he fails, if the Dead Armies rise once more, then the power of al-Din will soon consume them all.

_

The Madness of Hallen is the first book in the Khalada Stone series, and follows the lives of two brothers in their quest against the rightful heir to the mind of Husam al-Din.

“I read a lot of fantasy novels, and few could measure up to the sheer scale, or do it with such imagination, strong writing, fantastic imagery, action, plots with subplots within subplots and complex characters with lots of betrayal and double crossing.”

“This is truly an epic adventure.”
Dan Myers - WORDlink USA

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russell Meek
• Release date: Jun 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301643622

Russell Meek

Russell Meek is a commercial advertising photographer, currently based in Auckland, New Zealand, but has worked in North Africa, the Middle East, Europe, the Caribbean, Asia, Central and South America. He began creating ‘The Khalada Stone’ series in 2007, enriching his foray into fantasy writing with the visual experiences he has gained from remote locations around the world.

Book preview

Prologue

A cold, cruel wind swept through the Meil’vohllen. Its shrill howl forged tortured, icy burrows deep within the range’s core. For countless generations, these seemingly endless mountains isolated Hejveld from the desert east. Death awaited those foolish enough to scale these ravines, yet one explorer had found a way through. With his bearded, weathered face pinched between the white fur of his tightly hooded cloak, Hallen stood defiantly at the edge of an icy crevasse amid a dozen fur-clad men. All sheltered beneath the cold shadow of a towering wall of stone, yet Hallen could not hide from the ancient, incessant voice whispering in his head.

'atlaq Sarahi Release me.

Afraid, Hallen scanned the horizon, but sight of no man but his own could be seen. Desperate to find the source that guided him through the mountain, Hallen dug his spiked boots into the ice, tightened his rope and leaned out over the crevasse. Its depths struck fear in his heart, but he knew he must descend. His team of men, their thick wolf-fur coats bristling under a strengthening breeze, stood behind, awaiting his final command.

Two days, Hallen gruffly said before turning to face them. If I’ve not returned, I’m already dead.

Beyond them, the rising sun set the mountain peaks alight. Wondering if this would be his last sight of dawn, Hallen was lowered into the cold, blue crevasse, his men silent as he disappeared below the snowline.

The relentless winds soon gave way to silence. Great sheets of ice rose to greet him, smooth and unforgiving. Hallen leaned out from the wall, weary after eight long days trudging through heavy snow and stared into the seemingly bottomless abyss. Soft slivers of light trickled down from above, doing little to penetrate the gloom, yet there was something else rising from the shadows, whispers of an unseen fear. Hallen closed his eyes, shielding himself from the voices echoing in his head. It must be near, he thought, forcing his concern aside, then he called to his men to loosen the rope, and slowly descended the chasm walls.

Darkness enveloped him. On the opposite wall, Hallen saw a ledge guarding a thin, black cleft that cut into the mountain. Seeing little else, he loosened the rope, gauging the ledge to be within easy reach. With a deep breath, he launched himself from the icy cliff. His heart pounded. It was further than he thought. His feet barely caught the edge, and he struck his pick deep into the ice to prevent his fall. Pulling his tired frame to safety, he collapsed upon the ridge. His breath was heavy, but he was silenced as the glacier shifted, the cracks and groans echoing throughout the crevasse. The Meil’vohllen is alive, he thought. To his relief, so was he.

Carving a slab of pale-blue ice from the wall, he secured the rope against the ledge, hoping he’d be fortunate enough to find his way back. His men waited high above, sheltered from the cold, ravaging winds, but from this point on, Hallen knew he was alone. He pulled his thick, wolf-skin cloak tightly around his shoulders, rose to his feet and stared into the chasm, shivering against the cold emanating from within. Leaving the last of daylight behind, Hallen crept between two towering walls of ice and into the darkness beyond.

Whispers funnelled through the cave. Sighs came from behind and in front, concealed in shadow yet burdened deep in his heart. Not far… Find me… You are close…. Hallen fought to subdue them. For years they had hounded his mind: day and night, now more than ever. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a small firelight and ignited its iridescent core. A pale-blue glow brushed the surrounding icy walls. The voices retreated. Breathing a sigh of relief, Hallen stepped forward, yet barely five paces in the glacier shifted. Cracks appeared in the icy walls, then suddenly the ground gave way beneath him, and he fell, feet first, into an unseen ice chute caught between the stone.

Desperately clawing for purchase, Hallen slid helplessly as the chute burrowed deeper into the mountain. His frail firelight barely exposed what loomed before him, the speed in which he fell too fast to control. Hallen rammed his pick against the ice as he sped by. He slowed a little, before he burst from the chute into thin air, through the roof of a vast cavern. His heart froze during the few seconds of free fall, before he crashed against the icy floor, sliding to an abrupt halt beneath a great stone wall.

Darkness consumed him. His firelight had smashed. Unsure if he’d fallen unconscious, Hallen tried to stand, but felt a sharp pain stab through his shin. Fearing his leg was broken, he reached down and felt the stain of blood beneath his furs, but no bone struck through.

I’m alright, he shouted to his men, more from habit than anything else. They were too far to hear him, too far to help. As the echo of his voice faded, he looked ahead. Seeing only emptiness, he whispered, I’m alright, once more, albeit consolingly to himself.

Rising gingerly on his injured leg, Hallen heard a hum resonating from behind. He turned, seeing a faint blue glow penetrating the distant gloom. An alcove formed, seemingly cut in the stone. Desperate for a way forward, Hallen groped the darkness for his pack, slung it over his shoulder, then stepped carefully toward the light.

Droplets of water echoed throughout the cave, yet as he neared the alcove the hum grew louder, drowning out all other sound. The tunnel burrowed beneath the girth of a gigantic stone; its surface worn smooth from countless years of moisture slipping across its skin. Ice crunched underfoot, and Hallen felt a chill return to the air. His legs became heavy, the pain in his shin replaced by heaviness in his heart as, from the shadows, the whispers returned. You are close….

Leave me, he growled, feeling pressure build in his mind.

It is time… Release me….

Hallen staggered forward, grasping once more at the smooth walls for support. The hum grew louder, and in it he could hear the shifting of the mountain, as though the very earth moved beneath his feet. The light grew brighter. He followed its course, until at last the tunnel gave way to a vast cave, housing a violently spinning sphere of blue ice. A bright light pulsated at its core.

All pain left him as he stood in awe before the sphere. Easily three times his height, it spun unrestrained within the centre of the cave, floating a foot above the ground. It appeared solid, the ice and water contained held in place by an unknown force. Hallen took a step closer.

I’ve found you at last.

He feared that to breach its surface would bring instant death, yet what he sought lay buried within, the bright light permeating from the lost Stone of al-Din. With it came the strength to resurrect the Armies of the Dead, a power Hallen knew he must prevent from being reclaimed. How this power could be wielded he couldn’t say, but for years he’d felt its pull, and he knew this power was to be feared.

As he slowly circled the sphere, he noticed a crumbled, rag covered skeleton propped against the edge of the furthest wall. He knelt beside the long-dead soul and lifted what remained of the hood from its dry skull.

Your secrets are no longer safe, Priest, Hallen reverently whispered. Forgive me for what I must do.

Hallen stared into the hollow eyes of this once great man, one of six Priests of al-Din. He’d dedicated his life to finding the source of their power, their incessant whispers urging him on until it became an obsession. For years he’d become more recluse, guarding in secret the true nature of his explorations, yet as he turned from the dead priest and stepped toward the sphere, Hallen knew he must at last give in to their call.

With great trepidation, he reached forward, his hand trembling. Splashes caught his fingers, the sting cold even through heavy gloves. As he breached the sphere’s surface, the ice parted, flowing around his fingers like rushing water. He felt the sphere shudder, a deep rumble releasing within the cave. Then, without warning, the sphere caught hold. Ripped from the cavern floor, Hallen was dragged inside.

There were cries of pain. He felt fear and abandonment, rage and despair. The once subtle whispers became screams of death. Yet, buried deep within, he felt hope. If it were his alone, he couldn’t say, but he clung to it with all his heart as he was consumed by the power of the priests.

In the centre of the sphere, the Stone of al-Din spun well beyond his grasp. He was unable to get close, his body caught in a maelstrom of flowing ice, too strong to counter. He reached forward, but an unseen force slammed him aside, almost knocking him unconscious. His vision became consumed by vast desert armies bursting from flowing seas of sand, their harrowing calls filling his soul with dread. From the depths of an encroaching sandstorm, towering wraiths emerged from whipping sands, their roars howling within the winds, matching the terrified soldiers’ screams. It was over in an instant, yet the pain and terror of all those souls devoured in the desert remained in Hallen’s mind.

Clawing the currents, desperate for breath and respite, Hallen was thrust ahead and cast into battle, a sword in his hand as it pierced a soldier’s chest. The sphere consumed the soldier’s screams, but Hallen spun as he felt another soldier attack from his side. He raised his sword to defend the blow, only for the vision to disappear once more.

He found himself tumbling uncontrollably within the sphere’s core, his limbs rendered useless against the priests’ power. He fought for control, only to feel scores of gnarled hands grip his body. He looked down in horror, finding himself wrenched against a black-stone cliff, towering high above swelling ocean waves, held only by the rotting limbs of a thousand dead souls trying to consume him within the island. For what seemed an eternity, Hallen endured visions of battles of blood, of bodies torn and cast upon the sand. They were over in an instant yet lasted a lifetime. He desperately reached out, struggling against the power of the visions. They tore at his mind and battered his body as if each bore physical form to protect the Stone. Betrayal. Murder. Rage. All gave power to the stone, and against it Hallen had no hope of survival.

Outside, the sphere was diminishing in size, shrinking as Hallen consumed all that is was. He remained at the sphere’s edge, yet he felt more enclosed, drawn closer to the centre. He felt a pressure squeeze upon him and was soon thrust within a surging flood of men charging into battle within an ancient desert ruin. His body was bombarded once more and in the confusion the soldiers turned from the living to the dead, their forms exploding from sandstone as the Armies of the Dead lurched toward their enemy.

A roar filled the cave as visions of al-Din’s armies began to rise. Sensing he was close to the source, Hallen turned to witness a dark-skinned, shaved-headed warrior, heavily tattooed with intricate inscriptions flowing across his skin. The warrior ran atop a fortress wall then leapt fearlessly from its edge, plummeting hundreds of feet into a raging battle below. The warrior roared, and Hallen heard others beside him, each man covered in blood and falling into battle. Those below looked up and ran in fear, for descending upon them was the great warrior himself. Husam al-Din. Sword of the Faith.

Hallen fell with him, staring unwittingly into Husam’s eyes. Pain tore through him. Rage. Anger. It all emanated from this one man. Hallen knew. Revenge would come. He screamed in pain, fear and dismay, for the once great leader of the Desert Tribes was destined to return, vowing to lay waste to those who had betrayed him. Husam gripped Hallen’s throat, but Hallen woke to find himself screaming, with the glowing Stone of al-Din clutched tightly in his hand.

At once, the diminishing sphere of ice imploded. Hallen collapsed upon the cold, wet floor as Husam’s rage and anguish infused into his frail mind. He writhed on the ground, unable to release the stone, consumed as madness claimed him. For hours, his tortured screams echoed through the icy chambers deep below the Meil’vohllen, as all that the Stone of al-Din contained lay waste to his rational mind. His screams echoed across the Weave, the subtle vibrations permeating all that the world contained, and in a distant desert, a hot wind began to rise. It was a subtle call, heard only by those who sought Husam’s power, the Daughters of al-Din. Each generation had searched for his power, their memories entwined, and it heralded to all that the time had come, that the mind of al-Din had, at last, been set free.

One

Na’ilah, last blood heir to the mind of al-Din, burst upright and wide awake. The screams of the unknown explorer still echoed across the Weave. They had yet to fade, and the torments laid within his mind still seared across her skin. For a few moments she didn’t understand where she was, then the presence of another stole through, and she recognised the woman with long, blonde hair, huddled at the edge of her bed.

Your visions, Baeta whispered. They’re getting worse.

Na’ilah scrutinised her second in command, registering that she clutched the sheets to her naked frame. Baeta was afraid. Aware that she was the cause, Na’ilah eased her breath, willing her senses to return.

My memories fade, she said, desperate to recover from her ordeal. She slipped from the bed, registering that they were still onboard Exordium, the ship she had commandeered from Johsala’s port of Burghat, on their way to Sira’an. She stared through the window at the towering, snow-capped mountains of Hejveld catching the last of evening’s glow far across the sea.

But we’re getting close.

Baeta stepped close and wrapped a robe around Na’ilah’s shoulders.

The others await on deck, Baeta said. Na’ilah took one last look at the mountains, knowing that somewhere within lay the source of her dreams.

Our journey is almost over, she said, both for Baeta’s courage and her own. Once I have what I need from Sira’an, the tribes of al-Din will reunite in my name.

Concerned, Baeta took Na’ilah’s arm.

What if Ha’amturah denies you his armies?

A flicker of ambition flashed within Na’ilah’s eyes.

It’s not Ha’amturah who we’ve come to advise.

They emerged fully dressed from the cabin, whipped by the cool, sea breeze that filled Exordium’s black sails. Edging closer to the towering cliffs that blocked the horizon, they would soon be in sight of Sira’an, so Na’ilah cast her attention to the four cloaked figures silhouetted on the main deck below.

Where is the Captain? Na’ilah asked once she’d descended the stairs. A thud sounded from behind, and as she turned, she saw the Captain slump dead on the deck. A fifth hooded figure stepped over him, wiping his blood from her blade.

The polemen have been warned of our arrival, came a velvety voice from deep within the hood. They should steer us in once we’ve breached the Gap.

Na’ilah looked at the Captain, a young man too easily lured by desire.

Do you think he betrayed us?

The fifth figure stared at the rising wall ahead.

He told me everything we need to know.

Na’ilah nodded, trusting her agent’s endeavours.

Take us in, then all of you stay out of sight, she said to the five hooded figures. Baeta and I are expected, but Sira’an knows nothing of your presence.

As they sailed closer, an enormous cleft in the cliff exposed the entrance to Sira’an’s harbour. A great chasm infiltrated the city, sheltering a narrow river coursing between Sira’an’s towering minarets. Light had faded by the time they reached the opening, Exordium chased by a sea fog drifting in as the temperature cooled. Tonight, they were in luck, for the seas remained relatively calm. Na’ilah’s shadowed crew struck the sails as soon as they entered the chasm. As instructed, scores of men lining the walls guided Exordium through with the use of long poles, helping the merchant ship navigate the rocks protecting the harbour entrance. They docked, bribed the harbourmaster, then Na’ilah and Baeta stepped ashore.

The city of Sira’an lay swallowed by the night. Beneath the sea fog, people slept uneasily behind locked shutters, the normally buoyant streets becoming empty and quiet. In the northern sector, a rowboat cleaved its way across the great lake. Damp mist shrouded its silhouette, the boat revealed only as the dim glow of a towering stone lighthouse swept over it, and then it was lost, claimed once again by the fog.

Upon the boat, three heavily cloaked figures drifted toward the lighthouse base, and to a roughly hewn set of steps leading from the water’s edge. The oarsman stood as they approached. He stepped ashore and lashed the boat to an iron ring staked to the rock.

I will wait for you within the mist, he said, keeping his voice low. You are expected here, but do not hope to return.

Na’ilah shot him an irritated glance from deep within her hood. Although softly spoken, his words carried a warning she could not deny. Ignoring his outstretched hand, Na’ilah set foot ashore, dwarfed by the black silhouette of the lighthouse towering toward the starry sky.

Baeta came ashore and pressed warmly against her shoulder.

Are you sure we can trust these men?

Na’ilah examined Baeta’s resolve, then glanced at the boat as it receded into the gloom.

The world is changing, Baeta. These men desire power. It is at their fingertips, but they do not have the strength to grasp it. Trust is not the issue. They will fear me when the time comes, but until then, they must do what I need of their own free will, and we must force that chance before their desire fades.

Na’ilah strode toward the lighthouse, her face deeply shadowed beneath her hood, and halted before a weathered door. She was about to knock when a heavy bolt was withdrawn from inside, the dull clunk swallowed in the heavy mist. The door pushed open toward them.

This way, a gruff voice said from the blackness beyond. As they moved inside, a featureless figure examined the surrounding waters, then turned to seal them inside.

The man shuffled past in the darkness, before the ignition of a dull ochre firelight sent sharp shadows across his scarred face. He eyed her momentarily, then gestured for them to follow.

Na’ilah and Baeta were led down a dank corridor, the moisture glistening off the stone under the firelight’s glow. They were guided deep underground, through tunnels and winding stairs, until Na’ilah was sure they were well below the level of the sea. She felt an uncomfortable trickle of sweat run down her back, realising this was a prison to which she may not have a key.

Their guide opened a final door, and they entered a small chamber furnished only by a long wooden table. Firelights floated above four seated men, casting an amber halo against concealing cloaks pulled heavily over their faces. Na’ilah knew that these were the men who would soon control Sira’an. The city’s influence had risen as Johsala’s power fell, their hold over the desert coming in the form of the great Collection Storms that lashed the region each year, supplying much needed water for the desert. Yet it had been years since the last storm came, and the desert tribes were starting to fray. With her focus fixed upon the men before her, Na’ilah and Baeta were ushered to the centre of the room, at which point their guide returned to the door and locked it shut.

Remove your hoods, said a strong voice, coming from the man seated second from the left. The voice was rich with age, and its low rumble echoed in the chamber as though the stone itself spoke. Na’ilah slowly slid her hood from her head, her black hair tied in one long tail that she brushed to one side. Her piercing brown eyes glared fiercely from her deeply tanned skin; the product of a harsh life spent under the desert sun. Beside her, Baeta removed her hood, cautiously following Na’ilah’s lead.

You have come with news of the eastern tribes, the man impassively stated. You have come to warn us that they begin to disband, that their loyalty to Sira’an is not as strong as we think, have you not?

Na’ilah’s eyes narrowed.

Your passage from the desert did not go unmarked, the man continued. "Though we honour your presence, Daughter of al-Din, you should know that name carries little weight anymore."

Na’ilah stepped forward, incensed that the man set before her dared to presume her claims. In part he was right, yet he was not the only one to have spies in the city.

"The tribes are unsettled, Sattah. Your leash upon their water reserves has them bound to the city no matter what, but that is not what compels their loyalty."

The four men fidgeted. Na’ilah had used the leader’s real name, a name thought unknown beyond this council. She suppressed a smile, for although the information had been gleaned at some cost, Na’ilah knew it would prove invaluable.

And you, Qasin, she said, turning to the hooded frame in the left-hand chair. Your profiteering will not save you when the uprising begins. The blood money you sleep on has not gained you one ounce of protection, nor will it do so until you have absolute rule of the desert tribes.

The third man abruptly stood, casting his hood from his face. His head was shaven, his brown weathered skin deeply pitted and scarred.

The tribes bow to our armies. We would crush any who dare stand against us. He eyed Na’ilah, before pointing a thick, hairy finger at her. You should look to your own safety. You are not among friends here.

He was calmed by a gentle touch upon his arm by the man beside him, sitting quietly in the fourth chair.

Sit down Za’im, before you do yourself an injury.

General Za’im, as Na’ilah knew him, stared at his hooded colleague, then tore his arm from his hold and sat back down in frustration. The fourth man rose and slowly slid his hood from his head. With eyes set into a chiselled face enriched by a refined black beard, he stared calculatingly at Na’ilah.

It appears our council is no longer secret. I need not remind you that should we wish it, you’ll be left here to be devoured by the lake. You will meet your maker in our dungeons. His voice softened. Though I would pray for your swift return in another life. He touched his heart with his fingertips, and Na’ilah courteously returned his bow.

Your prayers would be welcomed, Kha’atib, but it is not for my soul that your thoughts should linger.

Na’ilah turned her attention to Sattah.

"You assume correctly. I have come to warn you of unrest among the eastern tribes, but not for the reason you suspect. For generations they have given their allegiance to Sira’an, through need and faith. While the seat of religious power indeed lies within this city, its heart is not within your walls. The sands are at last beginning to shift. The River beneath the Desert begins to flow, and your hold upon the tribes will soon fail."

Sattah lifted his hood. What are you talking about? You know as well as I do that without the Qhabir’s consent, the eastern tribes would have no water from our wells. Their deserts would turn to dust, and the tribes along with it. They bleed us dry, yet what do we get in return? If I had my way, they’d all be left to rot.

Then it is fitting that you are not in control of this city, Na’ilah said, nor of its people.

Seemingly stung by her comment, Sattah waved Na’ilah away in anger. Only Kha’atib remained standing, curiosity etched on his face.

The River beneath the Desert? You use the term set out in the Scrolls of Hateeb. Sattah, Za’im and Qasin scoffed at the mention of the scrolls, but Kha’atib quickly raised his hand to silence them.

"Whether you believe the scrolls to be the ancient doctrine, or merely a corruptive manipulation of beliefs, the nomads of the eastern deserts swear wholly by its law, and any change in its relevance should be met with great severity."

He took a measured breath and skirted the table until he stood face to face with Na’ilah.

What have you seen?

She bowed slightly, thanking the spiritual leader of Sira’an for his understanding. The Tears of the Desert have begun to shed, and after centuries they at last grace the Sea of Souls.

With his back toward the others, only Na’ilah saw how visibly shaken Kha’atib was by this news, before he turned for his seat, and rested his chin upon linked fingers as he sat.

What is the meaning of this, priest? Qasin asked, clearly frustrated. When no response came, Na’ilah stepped forward to answer in Kha’atib’s place.

"Dumue alsahra’, she said in the ancient tongue. The Tears of the Desert. They are the life force that remains of those who have fallen over the ages and have been consumed by the sands. It is told that an underground river once carried the Tears to Bahr alnufus, the lost Sea of Souls. Only in the great temple of Johsala does a connection exist between our world and that sea. The cup that sits in the well has been dry ever since the city lost its leader and the people Husam al-Din left behind by were abandoned. It was by his rule that the tribes were united, and it is his name, my name, that bears the heart of the tribes’ faith."

Kha’atib lowered his head and muttered a prayer, then turned to face the other council members. When he spoke, his voice was bathed in humility.

Though I lead our people in all matters of faith, I never held belief in the return of Husam al-Din. If the tribes are made aware of this, we’ll have no control over them at all.

Sattah leaned forward. Husam al-Din has returned? What nonsense is this? Where’s your proof? He shook his head. That puppet has been dead for centuries, he’s a myth to control the weak.

Husam al-Din has not returned, Na’ilah continued, yet signs are beginning to appear. I have not seen the Tears with my own eyes, she said, suppressing the visions of those dead souls tearing at her mind, "but power builds within the temple. Although the temple priests denied it, I saw fear in their eyes. They are preparing for his return."

She took a moment to stare at each man in turn.

If what I say is true, life will breathe back into the once powerful city of Johsala. What is now a splintered hive of leaderless men will overshadow everything you have created. Qasin, you will lose your grip on commerce and trade. Za’im, your loyal soldiers will abandon you in the rush to join the prophetic armies of al-Din. If you threaten to cut their water, the desert tribes will drink your blood before securing the wells within the Ji’ruk.

She saw Za’im shift uncomfortably in his chair.

Sattah, you have the most to lose, she continued. As next in line to the Qhabir of Sira’an, you will inherit a ghost city bereft of power, and you will be forced to bow down to a new master, one whom you will have no hope to supplant. Out of all of you, Kha’atib will be the only one to profit.

At this, the other three looked at Kha’atib, whose own face was a picture of dejection. Downcast, he spoke as though to the floor.

I admit that I have lost my way in guiding our people from the Scrolls of Hateeb. I have strayed from the pure teachings, yet should al-Din rise once more, the faith our people reserve for me will be renewed tenfold, and my guilt shall clothe me for all eternity. His eyes hardened, then he looked mockingly at Na’ilah, his voice tinged with scorn.

I abandoned those ideals years ago, for there is no truth in them. The scrolls have no meaning in the world we live in. If the people choose to waste their lives subject to a false prophet, then so be it. I have chosen not to break their bond, but I will profit alongside my colleagues while the ignorant masses pray.

Do not lie to me, warned Na’ilah. "I know your kind too well. When the people turn to the White Watchers and rejoice that you have led them to witness the return of al-Din, their renewed faith in you will eat you alive. You will be tormented by your own sense of worthlessness. The others may lose profits, but you will lose much more. The only way any of you can remain in power is to take control of Johsala before the tribes do. Whether or not al-Din has returned is something you can determine once you have rule over the city."

Sattah grunted. Why should we believe you? A direct assault on Johsala would bring the tribes’ wrath to our gates. You offer nothing as proof.

I am on my way to bring you proof of the return the tribes so desperately desire. When I do, you will understand who has power over these lands. In my absence, I suggest you prepare to take control of Johsala. If you do not, the luxuries you afford yourselves will crumble into dust.

Sattah abruptly stood. Then return when you have something measurable, not rumours and heresy. His posture was unyielding beneath her glare, but Na’ilah could tell he was rattled.

Simak! he called, turning to the man clothed wholly in black who had led her and Baeta from the boat. Get them off this island and see them ashore. I will have no more of this insanity. This council is over.

Baeta moved closer to Na’ilah as Simak pulled a firelight from his cloak and signalled the oarsman from the lake’s edge.

You weren’t as subtle as I thought you’d be.

I don’t have time for subtleties, Na’ilah sharply replied. "The memories of my ancestors are beginning to fade. Something draws me beyond this city, but the knowledge that Johsala must be secured has hounded my dreams for months. I took my own mother’s life, and perhaps by doing so the connection between us was severed, but I fear my link to Maymunah is becoming weaker. If we do not find the stones soon, her line will be broken, and he will have won."

Then where do we go? Baeta asked. Na’ilah caught the oarsman’s return signal through the mist, then she gazed into the night sky.

We cannot be stranded here if the Collection Storms come. Find us a small ship heading for Njall. We must reach the Hejveld plateau, for my visions are of mountains covered in snow. Somewhere on that land a stone of power has been found.

She turned to face Baeta, drawing her close. "That wasn’t some tale to ignite their fear. The Tears of the Desert are gathering. It has begun, Baeta. Something in the mountains of Hejveld has caused the river to flow."

She looked out over the mist. I will give them proof of al-Din’s return, then the desperate fools will have no choice but to march toward Johsala and secure access to the temple in my name. In the meantime, we must push for the mountain pass through Brúnn and beyond, where I will scour my ancestors’ memories until I discover the location of al-Din’s mind.

She stopped talking as Simak ushered them to the boat. Once they were on board, Simak shoved it into the water and sent them adrift. As the oarsman began rowing, Na’ilah stared into Simak’s cold, unwavering eyes, unable to break his gaze until the mist claimed him. Seconds later, all trace of the lighthouse was gone.

Two

The last of winter’s snow had fallen on the mountain city of Brúnn. Its gentle powder wrapped a soft blanket over rooftops and cobbled streets, and for five long months it isolated the city amongst the mountains. Once the Pass through the Hardingr and Haeringr ranges had filled with snow, all passage through Brúnn stopped. The spring trades were still a month away, and the only signs of life were smoke trails, wafting from grey chimney peaks high into the air. It was bitterly cold, the mountain winds sinking sharp teeth through the fur coats of two sentry guards aloft in their watchtower.

There it is again, the elder guard said. He braced himself against the stone, feeling little warmth from the fire pit burning at his back, concerned more for what lay hidden within the encroaching mists far beyond the great Western Wall. He peered through his scope, searching the low hanging cloud hampering the road leading toward the Hardingr Pass, but lost sight of it as the winds shifted once again.

Take a look, he said, handing the scope to his junior. Your eyes are keener than mine. Whatever it is, it’s bigger than any man, yet no beast would range from the mountains so close to the city. He gazed at the wider mountain range.

Have the guards let any through the gate this morning?

His junior raised the scope to his eye and set it toward the Pass road.

None have left the city, and all were accounted for last night.

The old guard cursed, his breath a white puff beyond his frozen beard.

We’ve had no word of the Rangers clearing the Pass, he whispered, almost to himself. Whatever approaches, does so at great peril.

He glanced south beyond the slow rolling mist to the towering Hardingr Mountains. Brooding clouds covered them in shadow, for the morning sun was yet to pierce their cold embrace. Heavily laden with snow, harsh winds whipped across their peaks. Feeling a chill down his spine, the old guard pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders and concentrated on the road ahead.

I see them, came his junior’s startled voice. He snatched the scope from the young guard’s hand and raised it to his eye. Tracking along the pass road, he caught sight of a lone horse, breathing heavily, its huge black frame just a bleak shadow within the mist.

It’s one of the Rangers’ beasts, he said, catching glimpses of the shaggy pelt covering its giant torso. He shifted the scope, searching through the mist.

Something’s wrong. There’s no one else in sight.

Instinctively, he moved his hand high above, lightly gripping an alarm cord set beneath a large iron bell. If rung, hundreds of guards would rush to the western wall ready to protect the inner-city gate. Staring back at the horse, he almost clanged the bell clear across the city as two heavily cloaked figures breached the swirling mist. Neither of their faces were visible. They just stood still, staring down the long road to the city gate.

That’s impossible, the young guard said. There’s still too much snow for the trade route to be open. Even a Ranger wouldn’t dare cross all the way from Hastunnd.

A shaft of sunlight speared through the clouds, finally pushing back the mist that had so cunningly concealed the approaching figures. Revealed at last, the two lone souls marched upon the city gates, dressed heavily in thick, silvery furs. Following them, the Ranger’s horse drew a light wagon behind.

They don’t look like traders, the old guard noted, and Rangers don’t travel in pairs. If they’re travellers, it’s too early to cross the Oystkrakkr.

He referred to the great crack that split Brúnn in two, its towering cliffs sheltering the mighty Oysteinn River that spanned the two mountain ranges. Leaning over the watchtower’s parapet, he whistled to the guards stationed at the great gate below. He signalled two fingers, then flipped his wrist and motioned that the travellers were walking. As the guards begrudgingly tore themselves from their fire pit to look through the gate latches, his young colleague took the scope from his hand.

Look at the size of those hoods, the young guard whispered. I can’t see their faces. It’s a wonder they can see where they’re going at all.

He grunted in agreement, concerned more about how they found their way through, and what had happened to the owner of that horse.

As his nerves calmed, he felt the morning sun finally cleave through the clouds and flood the city below. Its warm light washed away winter’s cold. It crept silently over rooftops, dipping into Brúnn’s snow-covered lanes and courtyards. The town hall sparkled as the dawn sun glistened off its peak. The great towers of the university pierced the sky, and shadowy blue shafts stretched from chimneys and archways as the sunlight mixed with smoke from the kitchens. Soon Brúnn would wake, and the spring months would become a hive of activity, with traders pouring through the Haeringr from Burdynn and the north, or through the Hardingr with those coming from the capitol of Hastunnd and the great port of Njall to the south.

His attention refocused as the great gate creaked open. Confronted by the guards, the two cloaked figures stepped through. One guard lazily walked up to the cart to casually inspect it, steering well clear of the Ranger’s horse, while another questioned the two newcomers. The young guard steeped close, and both looked down, intrigued by this sudden arrival in Brúnn.

Covered beneath her large hood, Na’ilah gazed along the cobbled streets leading into Brúnn. Her journey from the desert had been long, the vision of the explorer’s discovery echoing in her mind, and she was intent on forging their way north as soon as they could.

I asked you where’s the Ranger? the guard repeated behind her. Her reverie broken, Na’ilah turned, her burning stare burrowing down upon the guard.

Ours was crushed in a fall, she said, dispassionately. The Ranger guiding us gave us his, then risked returning to Hastunnd. He bade we give word that the Pass south will be open within the week.

The guard eyed her suspiciously.

We weren’t expecting travellers for almost a month. The Pass north remains shut. Do you have business here?

A sudden whisper caught Na’ilah’s attention.

Aibnat aldiyn Daughter of al-Din.

She spun, scanning the city. No trace of who voiced it could be seen, yet she’d heard that whisper in her dreams.

It’s here, she said, quietly. The guard faltered at her distraction.

We travel beyond Brúnn, came Baeta’s soft voice. Surprised, the guard turned to her, though Na’ilah was barely aware that Baeta had spoken. We can find accommodation until the Pass –.

The University, Na’ilah abruptly cut in. The Masters. Where can we find them?

At first an answer did not come, so she turned and stood imperiously before the guard. Weary, her patience was wearing thin, her voice belying the desperation she felt inside.

I have need of the Masters of Brúnn, she said. If you would kindly show us the way.

The guard swallowed nervously, bowed, then stepped forward to begin describing the layout of the city.

They must important, whoever they are, the junior watchtower guard said, still eyeing the new arrivals through the scope. I’ve never seen the gate guards be so accommodating.

The old man grunted, watching the gate guard pointing toward the city, giving directions and smiling, nodding to the point where it was almost a polite bow. The hooded figures barely moved. Once the guards’ inspection was complete, the two strangers conferred closely, then both turned to the main guard, and slid back their thick, furred hoods.

A sharp intake of breath, followed by a small moan of pleasure from his junior made the old guard snatch the scope and place it to his eye, but he felt his own legs falter by what he saw. Instead of two hardened men as he had presumed, two striking women stood glowing in the morning light. To the left was revealed a head of ethereal blonde hair, long and wrapped sensuously around a slender neck and shoulder line. The wind gently brushed the few escaping wisps of hair against her face, which she softly drew back with delicate fingers. The old guard couldn’t help but imagine those fingers were his own, tenderly touching her soft, pure skin. Her eyes were cold shallows of blue, a mixture of water and ice, and she bore them down upon the uncertain guard.

A few feet in front, looking intently along the road ahead, stood the second. Her hair was long, but in contrast to her companion’s, hers was perfectly straight, as black as night’s reflection on still water. Set free of the encompassing hood, she let her hair blow wildly in the wind. Untamed, it whipped her face and stung in the air. Her eyes were stern and keen. She was raw beauty, her mere presence instilling a desire to kneel before her.

The old guard’s world stopped as he peered through the scope, his breath halting until his lungs began to burn. He was fixated with her, but in his heart, he knew he would never be nearer to her than he was right now. For the longest moment he could only stare, his mouth agape, until Na’ilah cruelly broke the spell by pulling over her hood, once more becoming shrouded in shadow. As her concealment became complete, the world around him dimmed. He did not feel the gathering chill as the winds again began to howl. His legs lost all strength, and though inside he ached for her to be brought back into his world, he knew she would only be part of his life for this fleeting moment. She was the most glorious woman he’d ever been blessed to see, and his heart grew heavy as he watched them both move slowly toward the city, where they were soon swallowed within the peaceful, snow-covered, cobbled streets of Brúnn.

Three

In a musty room set in the heart of Brúnn’s University, an old Master sat reading beneath a pale firelight. With his back hunched, his face slipped incrementally closer to the old texts placed before him, his long, white, bushy brows almost brushing the ancient scrolls. All around him lay still, quietness permeating the air, until the soft purr of his snores reverberated around his office.

Master Tauno, came his assistant’s nervous call from behind. Sensing no response, the assistant inched closer, and placed a tentative hand upon the Master’s shoulder.

Master Tauno!

Tauno abruptly woke. The assistant stepped back and politely bowed.

Forgive me, Master. A rather persistent visitor awaits you in your classroom. She’s refusing to leave until she’s spoken to you.

For a moment Tauno simply stared, registering that he was indeed awake, then clarity finally stole through.

A woman? In here?

The assistant bowed apologetically, then stood, waiting, as the old man huffed his way off his stool and begrudgingly left the comfort of his private room.

Baeta remained with her back to the door as she heard the Master’s shuffling footsteps. She was hooded, her large silver furs silhouetted by the stream of light falling from the tall window before her, and she waited for Tauno to come close.

What reason do you have for interrupting me? came Tauno’s gravelled voice. Restraining her anger against his insolence, she turned to greet the old man. From the depths of her hood, she could see Tauno’s obvious displeasure.

I have a mind to… Tauno faltered as Baeta withdrew her hood. Light caught her pale skin, her ice-blue eyes reflecting brightly amid the dour classroom. Her beauty revealed, she hid her amusement as Tauno stumbled over his words.

Forgive me, Master Tauno, she said with gilded grace. Had I known you were so busy I would have arranged an appointment.

Clearly flustered, the Master regathered his frustration.

The forethought would be appreciated.

Baeta dutifully acknowledge his request, but stepped closer, halting Tauno’s approach.

I have a query, she began. I have come from Hastunnd –.

The University?

At Tauno’s immediate interruption, Baeta recognised his inquisitiveness. She remained silent, allowing Tauno’s intrigue to allow her deception to weave its way in.

For centuries, the north remained isolated, she said. It was not until the Pass through these mountains and the city of Brúnn formed that trade began flowing south. Yet the north-men gave us gifts far beyond what any other culture could produce.

From her robes she produced a firelight and set it floating free before her. It burst into light, the glow igniting the depth of her eyes.

I’d like to know where that knowledge came from.

For a moment, Tauno remained enraptured by her beauty, then awareness returned, as did his frustration.

My dear, I'm a busy man. If you're after trade records, search the libraries. You're more than welcome to waste someone else's time there.

Forgive me, Baeta purred. I was told your knowledge of Harmonics, even its most basic form, was surpassed by none.

Harmonics? Tauno’s incredulity was barely concealed. Then you were ill advised. I don't deal in myths, and what I do know is reserved only for those indebted to study within these walls, not a....

Baeta raised a brow, begging Tauno to make one more ill-advised, chauvinistic comment, but Tauno dismissed her with a wave of his gnarled hand.

If you're after trinkets, perhaps one man may satisfy your curiosity. You’ll find him in the Merchant Quarter. A man named Hjalmer Lohsesson. I’m not sure of the legality of his work, but if you’re after anything unusual, it will no doubt pass through his hands. Now leave me in peace. I have more important work to do that answer fanciful queries about magic.

Early the following morning, Na’ilah and Baeta stood hidden in a dark alley in Brúnn’s Merchant Quarter, opposite Hjalmer’s warehouse. The streets were full of carts and wagons, the line long as the drivers waited for business to begin.

Each Master said the same, Baeta whispered as one of the drivers banged on the door of a small office set beside the main warehouse. Hjalmer is the one to ask if we’re looking for anything unusual.

Na’ilah stared with interest as an unkempt, powerful looking man stepped from the office. He pushed past the driver and banged on the large, wooden warehouse doors. They opened, and a boy stepped through, at an age of becoming a man.

His name is Ohrl, Baeta said, leaning close. He is Hjalmer’s son.

Na’ilah stared at the boy. Clearly, he had strength, yet she sensed petulance at having to work for his father.

Unload them all, then bring the inventories straight to me, came Hjalmer’s command. You can begin Yngve's trials when you're done.

Ohrl stared at the long line of waiting carts and wagons.

But they begin in an hour. Fulke is already on his way.

Then you’d best hurry, Hjalmer demanded, then pointed to the first wagon. And be careful with those crates.

Na’ilah and Baeta continued watching, trying to ascertain the contents being unloaded into Hjalmer’s warehouse, when two travel-stained men approached Hjalmer, their swords worn plainly for all to see.

Mercenaries? Na’ilah exclaimed as Hjalmer saw them. The three men stepped away from the cart drivers, their conversation held in whispered tones, then Hjalmer took them inside.

Perhaps his trade is not so transparent, Baeta said. He's guarded. If he hides the power you felt, we may need more time.

For a few moments they watched Ohrl unloading the carts, until Hjalmer and the two men emerged once more. Following behind came a striking woman, with visible strength in both her stance and her eyes.

Amalia, Hjalmer’s wife, Baeta whisperingly admired.

Amalia remained in the doorway, her eyes fixed upon the two guards, but as they left and Hjalmer turned to step back inside, Amalia gripped her husband’s arm and cast her gaze upon Ohrl. Intrigued, Na’ilah turned to the boy, as did Hjalmer. Ohrl nervously stood, aware of his parents’ concern. For a moment, no one moved.

You said they have two sons? Na’ilah asked.

Yes, Baeta replied. The other is a promising scholar.

Na’ilah gazed upon Ohrl, then returned to Hjalmer as he pushed past Amalia and entered the office. Clearly troubled, Amalia stared at her son, then left him standing, confused amid the ruckus of the warehouse. Na’ilah smiled, her gaze falling back upon Ohrl.

Then perhaps there’s another way to uncover what Hjalmer hides, she whispered to Baeta, then they turned, leaving Ohrl forlornly smothered by the long line of merchants arriving in Brúnn.

The morning had waned. Though the sun had yet to rise far above the mountains, thirty-one hopeful cadets had already gathered within Brúnn’s high walled, circular-tiered training ground. Aged between twenty and thirty, they had come from the seven major cities beyond Brúnn, each dressed in the armour of their region. They bantered among themselves, yet only with those of their own city, for they were aware that here, no friends would be made. Boasting bravely among themselves, they were unaware that behind them, a wooden gate had opened, and a leather-bound warrior strode silently through.

The cadets snapped to attention the moment Sword Master Yngve stood before them. With grave eyes masked by a battle-scarred helmet, Yngve stared down the ranks of nervous faces. Their bravado had gone, and they stood rigidly in line. Enjoying their discomfort, she slowly lifted her helmet. A stern woman, Yngve was in her thirties, not much older than those who stood before her, yet the weight of her presence almost crushed the young cadets. Her lithe frame exuded agility and speed, yet there was undeniable strength in her arms and legs. Her blonde hair was cut short around her face and past her ears, with just enough length to wisp across her cheeks as she moved. Her fringe hung tantalizingly over her eyes, which were a deep forest green, lush and deadly.

Yngve stepped imposingly to the line of cadets, eyeing each one until she came to an unimpressive young man of large build, wearing the slightly ill-fitting armour of Brúnn. Sweat beaded his brow. His name was Fulke, yet she knew him only as one of Brúnn’s lesser prospects. She stared fixedly at him, silently admonishing him for his inability to respect their own city’s uniform, then stepped away and faced the line.

Each of you stands before me because you –.

The wooden gate burst open. Interrupted, she waited as Ohrl scrambled through. Furious at the interruption, she stared balefully at him, ignoring his look of guilt as he took his place as the last of the thirty-two hopefuls at the end of the line.

You stand before me, she continued, because you desire to protect your respective cities.

Walking the line, she acknowledged the different sigils of each.

Burdynn. Njall. Vifel. Hastunnd. Smiorness. Gunnúlfr and Ásgierr. You have all come far. She glanced at Ohrl. Others have a long way to go.

Ignoring Ohrl’s look of dejection, she continued walking the line.

The rewards are great. Wealth. Influence. Leadership and respect. You fight for rank among your Elite, yet most of you will fail. Pair up. No one from the same city. I have you until winter returns. Let's see who makes it that far.

As the line disbanded and others began to pair up, Fulke approached Ohrl and shoved him to one side.

What's the matter with you? This is your chance. Don't let Keysa down. She won’t want you working in a warehouse like me.

Ohrl was about to respond, deeply troubled by the exchange between himself and his parents earlier on, but a brutish cadet wearing the towering stone flame sigil of Smiorness shoved his aside.

Are you deaf? the cadet bellowed. She said no one from the same city.

He shoved Ohrl again, pushing him into the centre of the training ground. Ohrl glanced at the door leading into the Outer Sanctum. He’d never been inside and knew that entry to each diminishing circle of Yngve’s training ground would be hard fought and hard won, but it was his only chance to make something of himself. He desired to make his father proud, and to offer Keysa something more than just a stock manager of his father’s warehouse. Lost in his own thoughts, he barely caught the sword tossed his way.

I’m gonna make you wish you stayed outside, the Smior cadet jeered, then he lunged to attack, and Ohrl barely avoided being knocked to the ground. At last, his training had begun.

That evening, warmed by the fires lit within their bed chamber, Na’ilah admired Baeta as she stood in front of a tall, heavy framed mirror. She cast a slow gaze over every detail of Baeta’s appearance, although she knew Baeta was immaculate. Her light silk bodice was wrapped to perfection. Thin, meticulously woven strips enhanced her narrow waist, then were bound within her chest piece, which enticingly embraced her partially exposed frame.

The colour was a soft enchantment of subtle green upon silver, a running river reflecting bending willows in the snows above. Baeta’s blue eyes were the source from which that water ran, her blonde hair rolling in cascades that fell in soft curls toward her bare shoulders. Against her pale skin, Baeta’s lips were a full red: warm and unique like the last autumnal leaf on a desolate tree.

Remind me again, Baeta implored, of why this young man, above all others, should have the pleasure of my… pleasures.

Na’ilah whispered her answer from right behind Baeta.

"Your pleasures? Need I remind you that your needs are not in my interest, though you may have your way with him as you see fit."

Na’ilah moved in front of Baeta, blocking the mirrored view with her own beautiful frame. She raised a finger to Baeta’s cheek, tenderly stroking it with the outside of her knuckle, then softly lifted Baeta’s dipped chin so that their gaze met.

You do understand what is at stake here? Na’ilah asked. We have been waiting long enough. We’ve tracked Hjalmer for almost a week, but he’s shown no sign of revealing his secrets. The Passes have opened. I had intended to travel north as soon as they cleared, but…. If he’s to reveal anything about al-Din’s Stone, we must entrap him by other means.

Na’ilah didn’t wait for Baeta to respond. Instead, she moved into the shadow of the opposite corner. She was dressed in dark-blood coloured leathers, her black chest-piece strapped hard into a tight corset. Her toned legs slipped into a pair of slim leather leggings, her hair bound in one long, perfect tail. Na’ilah looked no less alluring than Baeta, but in the darkened smoky atmosphere of the Floating Inn, she would blend into the background whereas Baeta would be the source of illumination.

Na’ilah settled her gaze upon Baeta. Beyond the single firelight floating above, everywhere else fell into shadow. The walls, a dull brown of tapestry against rock, reflected none of the grace of the woman admiring herself in the mirror. You truly are beautiful, Na’ilah thought, and she knew Baeta’s questions were not the product of vanity. She would not have chosen Baeta as second in command if arrogance would be her downfall.

Baeta could be as cold as the colour of her skin, a porcelain heart that would never break. Completely loyal, Na’ilah had counted on Baeta’s strength many times without fail, especially in this horrid cold country, far from her own over the great seas to the east. For an instant, Na’ilah remembered the hot winds, the expanse of sand and the will to survive that drove her toward her final goal.

There’s something here, Baeta. She whispered. Something I’ve not felt anywhere else we’ve searched. We’ve done well to remain undetected, but now it’s time to claim what’s mine.

Na’ilah stepped from the shadows, her voice low and assured, her eyes burning with a fire: resolute and determined. Her muscles clenched, and her jaw tightened as her soul once again bound itself to her destiny.

You are ready.

They slipped into their silver fur coats and left the warmth of their chamber. Chill air gripped them, for even though spring had begun, being so high in the mountains it would be a long time before ‘warm’ was a commonly used word.

Four

The Floating Inn straddled the mighty Oystkrakkr high above the Oysteinn River, occupying the remains of the original bridge before a new one was constructed some thirty years prior. The solid framework had been partially dismantled on its upper surface, then reinforced with the clear resin mined from the Haeringr. From a distance, the massive bulk of the inn appeared to hover in mid-air, floating midway between the east and west banks of Brúnn.

Interwoven within the clear framework below were layers of pathways and stairs leading to viewing platforms and small sheltered rooms, finally ending at its lowest level with a single see-through enclosure. In the last of the evening light, kissed by the fine mist of great waterfalls plummeting on either side, the myriad clear platforms mimicked a spider’s silk heavily laden with dew.

Mirroring the mountains that sourced the Oysteinn, the Floating Inn had steep slate rooftops that remained pocketed with snow. Smoke arose from its tall chimneys all year round, a sign that the inn never slept, and its ale always flowed. The inn’s heavy wooden doors, with imposing metal spikes carved and worn like the Oystkrakkr itself, were taken from the original eastern gate. They were a reminder of days long gone, when upper and lower Hejveld fought for control over the mountain passes. These days, however, there was peace in Hejveld and the welcome traders from both north and south were a constant flow in all but the winter months. There was never any trouble, as both the locals and the market traders travelling through respected this inn above all others as a safe place to do business and unwind.

Tonight, was the first night since the official opening of the mountain passes that traders had finally made it through. Friends would reunite, with new acquaintances acquired as the hustle of trade once again breathed life into Brúnn. As much business happened here as in the streets and merchant houses as new allegiances were formed, perhaps with a little help from the innkeeper Amold’s ales. It was a night that Ohrl and his brother, Faerl, wouldn’t miss for the world.

They strode across the great bridge, wrapped tightly in heavy furs to keep warm against the evening winds. Fulke joined them, along with two other friends, Jossi and Haarlund. Each were generous drinkers, though none more so than Jossi. An opportunist, Jossi made a living off those at the edge of legitimate trade. Haarlund trained as a physician, while Fulke remained working within his father’s warehouses. Perhaps the least prone to a drunken evening was Faerl, his studies less harmonious while hung over, but each had talked about