Warlord

By Katy Winter

Enter a unique world, where creatures and powerful beings, thought to be the stuff of myths and legends, become reality. The Rox, Mages, Dragons and omnipotent entities known as the Unseen Ones, dimly seen through the mists of time, now, in the Third Age, see the world of Ambros is threatened. Ochleos Rox’s prophecy, from long ago, now has dreadful meaning. Shadows begin to cloud Ambros as the world's very existence hangs in the balance.
Malekim, a powerful, malevolent mage, will destroy Ambros as he seeks ancient quarry. To help achieve his ends he enlists a man of legendary cruelty, the Churchik Warlord Lodestok, who will build an empire ruled by Warriors and serviced by slaves. The future of Ambros looks bleak indeed.
Ancient Archmage Bene, confronts overwhelming dark forces. It is his daughter’s children who are the unwitting instruments of balance. In the fight against destructive forces, their only weapons are unrecognized talents that may help them survive overwhelming odds, in a world torn apart by the Warlord’s violence. As well, Malekim marks all but one of the children for death. Who will survive?
Will ancient creatures and powerful beings once again become active on Ambros and ensure the balance and survival of their chosen species?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katy Winter
• Release date: Sep 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9780473262396

Katy Winter

Having graduated from university, Katy Winter qualified as a teacher. Much of her subsequent career was spent teaching English Literature and History. She also taught night classes of tertiary students Classical Studies – the study of ancient Greek and Roman History, Art, and Literature. This love of the Ancient world was the spring-board which prompted her to turn her attention from teaching to writing. Katy spent nearly two years creating her epic work, the seven book “Ambrosian Chronicles”, publishing them between 2013 and 2015. They were followed by “Jepaul” (2017), “Sephone” (2018), and most recently "Sopho" in October 2020.Katy lives in New Zealand with her husband and two rescued tabby cats. And her writing continues.

Book preview

ASQARN’S FARSIGHT OF WOE

It was the end of a glorious summer. Autumn came quickly on the Shadowlands and crept with mellow tones, but chill winds, on the rest of Ambros. It was the end of the Second Age. On the fringe of a clearing stood a boy, gazing with the abstraction of childhood, his eyes drawn to the swift flowing river that until recently was warm. He walked until he was ready to stoop over the edge. He let himself slither down the bank over a series of bumps, then began to fill a leather gourd he held carelessly in one hand.

He gave an exclamation when he saw the water he'd gathered was muddy. He realised if he wanted fresh water he'd have to wade further out, at least ankle deep, where he could see water ran clear. With a sigh, he moved out. He forgot about the gourd, his face suddenly grave and his expression preoccupied as he stood and watched the eddying current. A voice from beyond the river brought up his head.

Benhloriel! Benhloriel! Hurry.

Benhloriel swung his head to the voice. The gravity of expression lifted and the boy responded in a lilting musical voice.

I'm just getting fresh water.

Benhloriel stooped, filled the gourd, stoppered it, and turned to leave the river. He was an exceptionally tall boy for nearly eight cycles and was as slender as the Shadowfolk. Shadowlanders were universally tall, but Benhloriel outstripped those his age - they barely reached his shoulder. His eyes were different from the folk about him too. They were huge, startlingly violet, and fringed by long curling eyelashes that were as black as his eyebrows, while long auburn curls clustered thickly about his head. They fell disordered to his shoulders. Anyone sighting him for the first time would have been struck by the sensitivity of the face. Another voice arrested his progress.

Can you perhaps help me? it said quietly.

With a start Benhloriel swung round, overbalanced, lost the gourd and fell headlong into the river, completely losing his footing on the stony bed. He came up spluttering and muttering oaths. He fished about for the gourd that he spotted a short distance from him, grasped it, and then tried to see through a sodden mane to the further bank. He took a wary step back.

What he saw gave him pause. It was a very old man, his white hair thick and softly blowing in the light breeze that ruffled the long grasses at the water's edge. The old man seemed uncertain on his feet and finally sank where he stood, so Benhloriel could only see his head. The boy was of two minds. Curiosity warred with caution. Being only a child and not anticipating any immediate threat from one so ancient, he cocked his head.

You could come across and assist me, invited the old man. Benhloriel shook his head.

How do I know who or what you are?

A cautious lad, sighed the old man appreciatively. That's very true. I could turn you into something I suppose, couldn't I?

Nah! returned Benhloriel.

"Yet you don't run from me?

No, agreed Benhloriel.

Why's that?

Benhloriel gave a childish giggle and for the next few minutes occupied himself with tying the gourd firmly to the belt at his waist. It was only then he lifted his head to stare at the old man, a wisdom on his face that sat oddly on such young features.

Benhloriel considered him for a long moment. You mean me no harm, he pointed out. You don't treat me like a child either.

No, concurred the old man. To do so would be to insult you. Indeed your assistance would be appreciated. Can you come to me?

The boy thought. Then he began slowly to wade across the river, up to waist high in water at one point, before he reached the shallows where he scrambled to the edge of the bank. To pull himself up near the old man, he had to get secure purchase on a root. Panting, he took the outstretched hand, allowed the man to pull him closer, and then sank onto the grass to get his breath.

It's fast flowing, he said on a gasp. Cold now too. I swam here not long ago.

Seasons and time wait for no one, commented the old man affably. Soon the river will be unsafe to cross.

We'll be gone by then, replied Benhloriel, inexpertly wringing out the end of his light tunic. My clanin move today. Madril tells me we head south to deeper forest, just as we usually do.

And your father? He goes too? Benhloriel shrugged.

I know no estim, he answered frankly. I'm a love child of a horse trader, so Madril tells me, someone from southern lands she says she cared for. She's not seen him since before I was born.

The old man was silent for a few minutes, then he said, Your name is Benhloriel.

Caught by surprise that the old man should know his name, Benhloriel turned his head so he could study the lined, kindly face beside him. He nodded slowly, as if in a dream. He felt snared. The old man's eyes drew him inward in some way, so much so that he could neither blink nor break eye contact. He was drawn as if through water. He seemed to have become a disembodied thing, unable to think or see. Yet he felt no panic. He was strangely content to simply float.

~~~

Not so the old man. The boy fell against him quite suddenly, his head slumped so that it rested, face up, on the old man's lap. The eyes, violet and glazed, stared upwards. Asqarn bent his head to keep eye contact as he entered the boy's deep consciousness. An ancient archmage, he had the ability to farsee, a talent and skill he rarely used - this day he knew he had no choice but to use it.

Mystified, he watched the boy's creation. He didn't recognise the man who willed the slight Shadowlander woman to an erotic response, but a sense of deepest foreboding told him Benhloriel had a most unusual father indeed. Even the man's looks were an oddity on Ambros. He was a large man, of great height, with long curling black hair, sweaty now with passion, and his big violet-purple eyes were closed. Asqarn knew the exact moment Benhloriel was flung upwards with force and woven into a warm, dark, moist consciousness. Asqarn could feel the spark of life.

~~~

An image shift took Asqarn cycles ahead. Benhloriel stood beside his mother who had protective arms about him.

Leave him with me, she implored. He belongs here with us. It's the only home he's ever known.

Benhloriel's sire stood uncompromisingly, his unusually coloured eyes snapping in a spurt of temper.

You should have told me of him, Shahdan. He's my son, damn it, my son. He'll be useful on the roads when I go back south and he'll be company. As he's only half-Shadowlander, he won't miss such a life. Abide by the rules, Shahdan. The Aelkin would order you to surrender him, or I can simply take him, because a father has the right to his son.

Asqarn sensed the boy's confusion. He felt, too, Benhloriel's mother's arms tighten, the warmth of the woman's embrace washing over him. Shahdan let her arms fall, just as the man stepped forward. Benhloriel now knew who his father was. The man who surveyed Benhloriel was a musician, a drunkard, a man of magnetism, lust, and compelling eyes, who'd ensorcelled his mother time and again over the last weeks. Always she yielded, laughing.

Another shift saw Asqarn have a blurring of focus before a picture clarified. Asqarn saw an older boy. He was twelve cycles at most, too tall for the frailty of a thin body that knew hunger and cold. The auburn hair was plaited, tied back with a hide strip, and the violet eyes that stared out from a pinched face were wistful. Beside Benhloriel rode his sire. He looked over his son broodingly before he went back to playing a small, but complex, set of pipes. Occasionally he pocketed them, or handed them to Benhloriel, after which the man burst into song, his bass stunningly powerful and rich. A glow came to Benhloriel's eyes at the sound of the music.

~~~

Asqarn was next in a camp where folk milled about, many of them, drifting in aimless directions, then back again. Until the archmage's eyes settled on a small group beyond the firelight, Benhloriel was nowhere to be seen. He finally saw the boy trying half-heartedly to avoid blows, Benhloriel's sire filthy drunk. Regularly the big man took out his temper on his son. Benhloriel pleaded in a low voice. His sire only stopped when the woman with them tried to pull the man back and got a slap that sent her reeling. Benhloriel was released. He crawled away from the arguing pair as fast as he could. His father, distracted, leered down at the fallen, shrilly squalling woman, his hands pulling at her until she got to her feet and stamped her foot at him. The huge musician's temper eased. He burst out laughing.

~~~

The scene that followed was vivid. It made Asqarn shake with its implications. He watched Benhloriel run, until the boy collapsed, out of breath, half-in and half-out of a long deep ditch, where he lay, very still. Fear enveloped him and his chest heaved. Then he moved again as he crawled down as far as he could for protection. There was cursing behind him and heavy panting. The bass voice was very angry.

You cursed half-bred son of a pedigree father! I'll find you, boy, and when I do, you'll be sorry you thought to make me search for you. I'll flay your hide!

Asqarn saw defiance mixed with the fear on the boy's face, but the child made no move. The blustering voice went on for a few minutes, then became half-laughing, the man directly above Benhloriel. He hesitated.

Benhloriel, came a wheedling voice instead of a threatening one. It's no life for a boy alone, left to fend for himself. Come out and I won't beat you. Benhloriel hunched himself in silence for an answer.

Asqarn watched the boy. He stayed motionless. Then Asqarn's gaze went to the swearing and stumbling musician who relapsed into angry grumbling. The man stood uncertainly. He blinked owlishly. Asqarn's attention went back to the boy. His eyes fixed in shocked disbelief on the simple but elegantly designed ring Benhloriel restlessly twisted on a finger of his left hand – the archmage went cold. He shuddered. He didn't dare blink, let alone make the mistake of shutting his eyes. His instinct about the child was right. His sire was more than unusual.

You still wear my ring, boy. If I choose, I can call you. Still, if you insist on your own way, so be it. Remember who gave you the ring and treasure the gift from your father, Benhloriel. Go your way.

The man made a dismissive gesture and began to walk slowly away, every so often standing to look back to see if the boy was there. Benhloriel stayed crouched, his eyes on the ring. He stayed there until it was dark.

~~~

What Asqarn now saw came in vague blurred snatches. He saw a boy with a healer who treated him with gentle kindness. The boy matured to an impatient, fiery youth who rejected what he was taught. Hands eloquently gestured in anger and frustration. The violet eyes snapped. Another image showed a more tempered young man, but he was restless.

~~~

In turn, these images were succeeded by a cruelly vicious battle that swept Benhloriel along with it. The man was irresistibly caught up within it, in a way that left him marked and his eyes cold. Asqarn saw jagged flares. They crossed the Ambrosian sky to spear the ground like lightning, only these were pulses of myriad colours that rebounded with phenomenal force. He sensed powers beyond understanding stormed and raged in the inner aethyr of Ambros.

Then, hurtling at tremendous speed, a dragon and his mage tore through a rift in the sky. They crash-landed in southern Ambros. Asqarn took a very deep breath because he knew who the mage would be. It was Benhloriel. At the same moment the glimpse of a lovely Ambrosian woman, possibly a nymph, briefly touched his consciousness and filled him with ominous premonition. He wanted to call out in warning. A shiver shook him.

~~~

One image outlasted the others. It occurred well past Asqarn's own time in the Second Age. He instinctively knew it was in the Third or Fourth Age. He saw tumbled energy ribbons of light. They writhed in and out of each other, Benhloriel's blue energy merged with another that supported his. An attack from another combined energy irreparably weakened them. A third fragile energy, an indigo ribbon that was part of them, was flung away.

Then, suddenly, Asqarn knew he moved forward in time. Two columns of light shone brightly. Coloured shapes swirled in and out of them. They coalesced, separated, then became one, all absorbed within a shaft of amber light that shone more brilliantly than the others. The weakened blue energy ribbon, that was Benhloriel, was drawn into the shaft. The blue winked out.

Ah, the gods spare us, moaned Asqarn. He stroked the hair of the boy lying so quietly in his lap. Your future hangs about you like a shadow, child, yet your destiny isn't all dark. He sighed. If only I could understand and make sense of things, but you're only a child. Asqarn continued to stare down at the limp figure, warmth in his eyes. He felt welling pity too. He traced a hand across the boy's forehead. Find peace in the Shadowlands of your birth, Benhloriel. I've ensured it's there. I can at least do that for you. I wish I could do more.

Asqarn broke eye contact. He watched the boy's eyes slowly clear of milkiness, and made no move when the boy abruptly sat.

I'm sorry I fell on you, Old One, Benhloriel stammered. He put up hands to eyes that he rubbed very hard. He shook his head.

It's nothing, replied Asqarn softly. You came over dizzy, nothing more. The water was colder than I thought. Had I realized, I'd not have asked for your help. He pointed to his staff that he'd deliberately discarded beyond the grass and reeds. I called so you could fetch my staff. So foolish of me to lose it when I need it.

Benhloriel jumped to his feet. He brushed his hair impatiently from his cheeks, and obligingly trotted over where the old man pointed, retrieved the staff, and came back to courteously hold it out.

Thank you, lad, said the old man with a smile. Your hand would be helpful too, Benhloriel.

Benhloriel grinned down. It was a smile that radiated from so deeply within, it touched the old man both with delight and cold dread. Asqarn took the thin hand, rose, then stretched across the boy to the staff. Benhloriel immediately relinquished it.

Now I shan't trouble you again. Good hunting down in the southern Shadowlands.

Benhloriel nodded. He turned and gracefully made his way to the river. He didn't look back. Asqarn briefly studied him, then was gone in a shimmering of light. In an old man's place was a spiralling segat, its wings blurred with the speed of its ascent.

~~~

Benhloriel just reached the other side of the river, when a small group of Shadowfolk, his mother among them, emerged from the nearest trees and converged purposefully on the river. The boy heard calls and waved. Hands pulled him on to dry ground.

What were you doing, child? asked one of the men.

An old, old man lost his staff. He called, so I crossed the river to help him, he explained, unaware of eyes fixed to his face.

Did you now? asked another Shadowlander. That was kind of you. He stepped forward, tilted the boy's head and stared long into innocent eyes. What he read there made him most pensive. Get the child warm, he snapped. We have to move. A firm hand on Benhloriel's shoulder propelled him forward.

CHAPTER TWO

THOSE OF ANCIENT POWER AND MYTH

The so-called Unseen Ones had been gone for many cycles from Ambros. In their perambulations about the universes, they'd often meet one another to argue, laugh, and then, without further thought, they'd part and go their separate ways. One or other of them would stay in contact with their chosen species, the Rox. The Rox lived on a plane far beyond Ambros and Yarilo; their world was called Lilium. The mages resided on Yarilo, a plane quite some distance from Ambros. The Rox communicated with the mages on Yarilo, only through teleth. It was very rare these days for a Yarilan mage to sight a Rox; rarer still for any dragon to set eyes on a Rox.

Once, a long time ago, all species had lived together on Ambros, but no one remembered much about it. There had been interspecies matings too, until the Unseen Ones declared this had to stop. It hadn't occurred since early in the Second Age: no one, other than perhaps the oldest dragons, knew why.

The Rox disappeared entirely from Ambros to settle on Lilium. They were barely recalled, even in legend. Common folk knew nothing of them, though scholars would recall them from ancient scripts. Where the Unseen Ones settled the Rox, they were protected and flourished - it was from there they were made responsible to the Unseen Ones for the continuing balance of Ambros. They were to oversee the satisfactory development of its inhabitants. The way they did was through the mages on another world that circled Ambros, called Yarilo. The Rox did this willingly, out of gratitude. They were the Guardians of Ambros.

~~~

The only ones who knew of the guardian Rox were the Yarilan mages who answered directly to Lilium. On Yarilo, the mages actively maintained the balance of Ambros. Each venerable mage was blessed with an ice dragon who bonded with that individual for the duration of a mage's life. Only a master could attain such a gift.

Mages were chosen for particular skills and talents; that was the responsibility of the Rox, though sometimes it happened a mage was found and brought to Yarilo without the prior knowledge of the Rox. Though this was rarely done, it had been known to happen. It did with the mage Bene. It was the Unseen Ones, however, who had the final decision of a mage's acceptability - both Lilium and Yarilo knew this.

~~~

Once, too, the dragons were seen all over Ambros, but now they lived in the far north of Ambros, on a huge and inhospitable island that few even knew existed. Those who might have known wouldn't have been so foolish as to attempt to find it. It was only known to Ambrosians, through legend, as Ice Isle. Dragons had been unseen now for hundreds of Ambrosian cycles; they were recalled only in mythology. Some of their number were ancient, with memories that stretched back far beyond any chronicles that were kept on Ambros, but these memories they kept to themselves. All dragons were ruled by the Unseen Ones, whether the mages willed it so or not.

~~~

The Unseen Ones were a disparate, indestructible group, quite amoral in many respects. Some could see only the amusing side of being, living their existences to the full, while others were sober and took existence less frivolously. As beings, they were changeable and unpredictable: there would be relative harmony among them, then as suddenly there'd be bitter discord. They could be companionable or solitary: maliciously fiendish or amiably charming: compassionate or pitiless. They were most often subject to whims.

So it was almost an oddity they finally managed to agree on a balance for Ambros. Perhaps it was because each Unseen One had a distinct sympathy and affection for one or other of the species who originally populated Ambros, this mutual affinity drawing them together this once.

~~~

Huma, with Sympho, were the ones who specifically chose the Rox so long ago. Marl selected dragons. Benth established the mages on Yarilo. Minac favoured the Reader-Seekers of the Conclave. Abus lived among the ghost ones of the Shadowlands in northern Ambros. Misa wandered happily with the Sinhalien plainsmen; her twin, Crue, knew life with the Wildwind desert tribes.

Lais liked the little people, or the Gnosti as they became known. Obli thoroughly enjoyed liaisons with nymphs and dryads over an extended period. Other Unseen Ones had come and gone on Ambros, taking whatever form suited them at the time, none of them strangers to Ambros.

Obli was the one most at ease and interested in Ambros. He was teased about nymphs, the raillery half-mocking, half-amused.

You and your Ambrosians, was the comment. We believe you would wander that world indefinitely. Obli gave the ghost of a laugh.

They intrigue me, he admitted. It's an interesting and unusual world I wander.

Then, after the others, there was a rippling in the air, before he too was gone. That was a long time ago.

~~~

The Unseen Ones established the maintenance of a balance for Ambros because they'd once caused mischief of a serious kind and agreed it must never happen again. In times gone by, if an Unseen One took action that was seen by another to be partial, or detrimental to his or her chosen species, then reciprocity became a vicious game.

Ambros became a helpless victim, tossed to and fro in a tug of war. The Unseen Ones barely stopped in time. It followed the activities of one of their own and also saw the end of the First Age, the species separated in an effort to recreate a balance.

To ensure this, all the Unseen Ones agreed not to interfere, unless they saw a genuine threat, direct or otherwise, to their chosen species. This only happened once. It was caused by Huma and Sympho's son, Dire. Dire was proud and arrogant: to him humility was as alien as it was to other Unseen Ones. He was conceited and often needlessly hostile, isolating himself deliberately from the Unseen Ones for very long periods of time.

On Ambros, he settled in a deserted valley surrounded by fertile plains, where he built a fortress to amuse himself. He called it Lachir Keep. As he was ungracious and took umbrage easily, the Unseen Ones would have left him there indefinitely had he not been so ready to interfere with the inhabitants of Ambros. His final act was to take a fancy to one of Benth's mages, a young woman from the Shadowlands. Removing her from Yarilo to the Keep he mated with her and, from there through her, he began to interfere with the mages on Yarilo. He was affronted and embittered by the criticism he received.

When he and Onscre had a son, Dire made it clear he wished his son to accompany him, on and off Ambros, wherever he wished to go. He also stated his intention of mostly remaining on Ambros and continued to interfere with the mages. Huma and Sympho refused to let Dire stay on Ambros to make further havoc. Nor could he take his son to any other plane. When Dire set out to challenge his parents he was taken, and, a prisoner, removed from Ambros.

Soon after Dire's removal, his mate sickened. She appealed to Yarilo to take her son and train him as befitted his parentage, but it was only when the boy was three Ambros cycles and Onscre died, that the boy was finally taken to Yarilo. There he grew up under the tutelage of Benth's most outstanding mages. The boy's name was Malekim.

~~~

Before he was an adult, Malekim began to show all his father's less desirable traits; in the boy they were exaggerated. He was petulant and chaffed at discipline: he could be odious and spiteful and derived pleasure from hurting others. He had an antipathy to his tutors, all but one. Elucien, who taught the boy of the occult, found Malekim a disturbingly apt and fascinated student.

The boy loathed his fellow students. He showed, in everything he did, that he despised them, nor did he care to understand or respect the balances of sorcery; they meant nothing to him. What Malekim came to seek was the control and manipulation of all living things. He wished most to be worshipped. He wanted to be ageless and sought his father's immortality as a prize beyond everything else, his paternity what spurred him to be a greater mage than any other.

On Yarilo, none of the mages knew where Dire went. The Unseen Ones never intended they should know. The Rox were kept in ignorance as well. Like all mages, Malekim was aware of the existence of the Rox and accepted their very few calls to him in teleth, but, unlike all the other mages on Yarilo, he was never able to learn to teleth reciprocally. This also embittered him.

Because this lack annoyed him so intensely, Malekim was determined to learn to do something more successfully than anybody else. His early attraction to the dark arts began, increasingly, to be an obsession. What alarmed the masters was Malekim's talent for it; the mages hoped his fascination would wane in time.

By the time Malekim was a young man, he was reluctantly seen as destructive and obstructive. He began to manipulate the minds of those on Ambros. Yarilo saw this as malevolent. To this young mage it was all an experiment, even a game. Malekim enjoyed inflicting pain. As cycles passed, he became increasingly ferocious, even, unknown to his fellow mages, beginning to tamper with the essences of those on Ambros with whom he experimented. One who watched him, was a master mage called Benhloriel.

~~~

By now Malekim was mature and as powerful a mage as any other. He abandoned Yarilo to take up residence in the deep south of Ambros, as his father once did. It was there he found a highly cultured and civilised people, unique and advanced, who flourished around the rich lands adjacent to the Keep.

They were called Druans. These people were intelligent and deeply gifted, many among them seers and, almost universally, they had musical talents. They had scholars among them who recorded their music and writings and although they were warriors, they weren't cruel, nor did they impose their rule on others. Their bards, scholars and seers were revered. They yearned for, and dedicated their lives to, the quest for knowledge.

Malekim studied the Druans for cycles. Then, without warning or compunction, he set out to destroy them. He did it so thoroughly that few of the Druans escaped into the deep south. There, they were absorbed into lesser developed tribes. At first their talents were appreciated, but, as cycles went by, these talents were seen as threatening, so any born showing signs of them were slaughtered out of hand. Later still, some of the tribes did struggle to try to preserve the skills of the bards and the seers, but much was lost.

Malekim saved both the chief bard and chief scholar of the Druan people. Until they died, they were locked in chambers in the Keep, where they were forced to copy their knowledge onto parchment. Once drained, they were disposed of. By then the Keep was a huge repository of knowledge that the mage intended should never benefit Ambrosians. If the Rox and Yarilo wanted to help Ambrosians, Malekim would do all he could to hinder them. He watched the subsequent descent into savagery among southerners with enormous amusement and satisfaction.

~~~

He now, laughingly, turned his attention to the inhabitants of northern Ambros. He encouraged hostility and eventually war. The Rox watched the increasing appeal to arms with mounting concern. Their anxiety deepened when the northmen, finished fighting with each other, turned to look covetously at the south. The uneasy truce in the north firmed. The north went to war against the south. The resulting conflict was bloody and Malekim enjoyed his participation in it very much.

His fellow mages, conscious of the tilt in the balance of Ambros, decided to act. The battle between the mages was gargantuan. It saw the end of the Second Age on Ambros. Nor was it a clear-cut struggle. Mages split over whom to support. Some mages contended that Malekim only mischievously fomented a wish for war that already existed in the Ambrosian mind: others argued that he'd deliberately instigated aggression. Chief among these was a master mage called Benhloriel. This schism among the mages placed the balance of Yarilo in jeopardy - the balance on Ambros was now seriously overset.

The Rox were forced to intervene. Huma and Sympho became involved. Benth already was. Because the Shadowlanders became targets of the southeners, Abus took umbrage and encouraged his people to fight back. Lais, too, entered the fray, in support of the Gnosti whom Malekim drew in out of sheer spite.

Malekim demanded Dire be allowed back to Ambros. When told this wouldn't happen, in unspeakable fury the young mage threw down a challenge to Huma and Sympho from his southern fortress. It was unheard of for a mage to do such a thing.

Called on by the Rox, the dragons swept down on Ambros as the mages battled. The Rox, supported by the Unseen Ones, challenged the supporters of Malekim among the mages.

~~~

It was a horrendous battle that left over half the Yarilan mages dead. Many dragons were either broken or died. Many Rox perished. Other species on Ambros were decimated. Malekim was brought before the Unseen Ones and judged by all as culpable. About to pronounce judgement, they heard the call for clemency from Yarilo.

You plead with eloquence, Benhloriel. Do you represent the surviving mages of Yarilo?

Benhloriel stood alone in the grove. His teleth was powerful and clear. I wouldn't presume to come solely on my own behalf. His long auburn curls blew in the wind. The violet eyes were sombre.

You ask us to spare Malekim the unmaking. Be careful what you wish for, mage. The outcome may not be what you hope or expect. If we grant clemency, you may live to regret it, all of you. However, like you, we can hope Malekim learns from what follows.

There was a very long silence, so long Benhloriel wondered if he was alone. Then the voice he knew was Benth's, as cold as ice, entered his mind and spoke curtly.

Your wish is granted.

Benhloriel left the grove.

~~~

Malekim was exiled to Ambros. For his punishment he was sentenced to a long period of endurance, with all the pain and suffering he'd caused others channelled back into him with remorseless force, cycle after cycle. It was impossible for him to be untouched by the raw power of emotion that coursed through him day after day.

To cope with this ungovernable flood of anguish, Malekim forced himself to become partly insensible; a tiny part of his essence withdrew and made itself impassable and passionless. As the rest of his being fought the pathos of thousands, and lost, this minute part of Malekim's essence held, barely aloof. As his mind and body finally broke under the assault, that small part of his being struggled to survive.

What motivated its survival, was total alienation and hatred. An implacable loathing of all the Unseen Ones stood for swept over that faint, flickering essence that was Malekim. A desire to destroy, once and for all, the balance they held so dear for Ambros was what sustained and nourished him.

He was left where he was, in the centre of Ambros. Though Yarilo couldn't know this, it was a mistake that would eventually cost them dearly. It took Malekim a very long time to show any signs of recovery, and when he did, he disappeared so completely and for so long, the Guardians, though vigilant, weren't disturbed. They merely hoped the mage had learned from his chastisement.

Yarilan Chronicles 2462, Half Crescent Astral Yarilo Cycle 2201, Second Age.

It is the beginning of the Third Age.

I'm no Chronicler. I write of what was seen. It was a triumph to defeat the mage Malekim. It came at enormous cost; many of our mages are lost; some of our most ancient and revered perished; we're weak.

Although we celebrate, we do so under a shadow of loss and sadness. Among our friends, losses are heavy. Many of our dragonkind died. We need spiritual healing and retreat into isolation to sustain ourselves. We have need of solitude.

I write because our Chronicler is among the dead. A new Chronicler will, in time, be appointed. He'll doubtless write after me.

If these words suggest a heavy heart, it's nearly always so. Where there's rejoicing, there's always sadness. Where there's gain, there's inevitably loss. Where also there's sorrow, there must be learning and acceptance.

The Rox understand this. So must we.

Let others come and follow this.

CHAPTER THREE

AFTERMATH OF ANCIENT BATTLE

It was the end of the Second Age. A small group stood overlooking rolling downs in fading sun that cast long shadows in an early Ambros spring. Though trees were in full leaf and the ground, until only a short time since, was covered with perfumed blue ornets, black-eyed cass, and the scarlet heads of the tall cowl flowers, those standing simply stared bleakly at the landscape. Not long since, the land was raw from the recent rage of gargantuan and bitter battle. Comrades fell and loved ones were lost. There was an uneasy and brooding peace that touched those who'd fought so hard.

It's finally over. A slender woman stood staring thoughtfully at her companions.

It is. The speaker had long auburn hair that caught the light. Let's hope this time we've achieved peace. The Watchers are grateful to you and yours, Cynthas.

That Malekim's caught is enough, shivered the woman. She turned to a second man. Without your help, Disah, capturing the mage would've been impossible.

Perhaps, came the stolid response from the short man who stroked his beard contemplatively. We hope a new age dawns for Ambros. He turned to the first man who'd spoken. In so many ways we're indebted to you Shadowlanders, Syberiel, and to those of the steppes the Hasuran sent. Isn't that so, Sophos Rox?

A third man turned to face the short man. His dark eyes shone with an odd light as he replied in a deep, placid voice, That's so, Gnosti, that's so. He paused then went on, There's no need for the Rox to stay here. You understand that, mage?

The fourth man nodded. His unusually coloured violet eyes strayed to the woman, then he blinked and looked quickly away.

The pronouncement's made, continued the Rox quietly. The Guardians acted to ensure the stability of Ambros. Let's hope it's the last time we'll be called.

The balance, murmured Syberiel.

With Malekim under restraint, that should ensure it, agreed Sophos Rox.

Much harm's been done, sighed the Gnosti. So many lost. It's hard to comprehend it's finally over.

Sophos Rox turned to the man with the very, very long auburn hair. We thank you and yours, Syberiel.

The Shadowlander nodded. He put his hand up to shade his eyes from the brightness of a sunset that blazed across a sky.

We know the importance of balance, Rox. We've been taught very well. He glanced across to the extremely tall mage who'd not spoken. Burelkin, he added softly, the children of Chloronderiel ask you to return with them to the Shadowlands. It's your home after all, Benhloriel, as much as Yarilo.

In response, Benhloriel gripped the outstretched hand. I'll come, Syberiel, though now isn't possible. Our Archmage is among the dead. The surviving masters have a difficult time ahead.

We grieve Soryn's passing, said Sophos Rox sadly.

In a sense, went on Benhloriel almost to himself, this brings us to the end of another age on Ambros.

If it's the end of the Second Age, we'll hope the Third Age is a more tranquil one, observed Disah tartly.

It's time for the Rox to leave, said Sophos Rox into the sudden and pensive silence. The mages must likewise return to where they belong. That's not on Ambros, is it, Bene?

No, agreed Benhloriel. He gave a sideways glance at Cynthas.

Until then, cautioned the Rox sagely, remember Ochleos Rox's prophecy. Though we hope what he wrote won't happen, it clearly hasn't touched on what's just been.

The chill winds that blew off the crag offered the companions little comfort. Their conversation was low, but fragments carried on the wind. Malekim's fate decided, they were restless. They were all representative of their species.

The tallest of the group had auburn hair sprinkled with white, a spare but surprisingly broad-shouldered frame and startlingly violet eyes. Huddled close to him was a delicate creature. Not much of her was visible beneath the voluminous cloak and hood, but you could see enormous green eyes, the green of rivers and oceans. These overwhelmed a delicate, oval-shaped face with high cheekbones. Her pointed chin was elflike. The slender neck seemed too frail to support the mass of thick, jet curls escaping from the hood.

The Rox stood a little distance from them. He, too, was very tall, but where the first man was slighter, this man was considerably broader-shouldered and deeper-chested, with hair as jet as the woman's, but, unlike hers, his was streaked with gold. His velvet eyes held a soft expression in their dark, brown depths. He spoke quietly and briefly to the couple before he calmly turned away to stand, contemplatively, alone. After a few minutes his form shimmered. In seconds, he was gone.

The Gnosti watched where the Rox disappeared, then sat beside the couple who squatted down to avoid the icy wind. The Gnosti gave a deep sigh. He pulled impatiently at his extremely long and tangled beard. He was very short and solidly built; there was something fierce about him when he stood four-square - the battleaxe he wore at his belt may have contributed to this impression. His face, usually grim and unyielding, was now very gentle. He smiled up at the couple, and when he stood to put his arm round the woman, his grip was so strong, she squeaked. With warmth in his smile, the auburn-haired man turned his head and held out a hand. The Gnosti briefly gripped it. He then began a slow walk away from them, to stand as if waiting for someone.

The Shadowlander stood further away. His eyes stared out into space. He was slender and seemed of barely any substance at all; he looked a man of shadow who was not quite real, his waist length auburn hair swinging round his transparent form in the wild gusts of wind. He approached the couple with a hand out, touched first the woman, his gaze intent, then the man. His expression was unreadable.

Then the Shadowlander walked to the Gnosti who awaited him and together they began to trek down the mountain trail. Neither of them looked back.

The last of the group was a little furry creature that sat placidly at the feet of the woman, the catlin with a wicked look in its orange eyes as its gaze followed the retreating figures. It meditatively licked a paw.

~~~

A noise rumbling in the distance grew so loud it made the man who remained move rather impatiently. He turned his head skyward. He waved his arm irritably. The noise came closer, the sun was briefly blotted out and the wind seemed even colder. Now the man was forced to take notice. The woman looked skyward too, her expression one of resigned sadness. The noise, now a roar, was accompanied by a blast of air that made the woman crouch to avoid being flattened.

Reluctantly the man strode forward, his arms raised. He stood absolutely still. His cloak whipped around him and his long hair was swept in all directions, but he didn't seem to notice the buffeting as he stood there, imperious and emanating power. A huge cloud drifted towards him, then, as it hovered overhead, it coalesced into a towering creature that flapped its enormous wings gracefully and rhythmically.

Dramas was a magnificent creature. His underbelly was golden brown, the scales along his back tawny/green, and his huge spiny ridge coloured from olive to slate. His wide-opened eyes were an unusual and vivid emerald. As he settled among the rocks, a spray of dust shot up in the air that made the catlin sneeze; even Bene and Cynthas started to cough. The dragon's huge talons scrabbled for purchase before the beast folded in red translucent wings. The red tongue flicked in and out in a leisurely fashion. Steam hissed gently.

Once the dust settled, Bene turned to face the dragon. Their eyes met and held, violet to green. They remained that way until the woman stepped forward. This made the dragon break eye contact with Bene and incline his head towards her, the emerald orbs revolving very slowly as if the dragon was pensive. He slightly dipped his huge head to her too. Cynthas spoke.

You're called. You know you must go.

Bene swung away from the dragon. The swirling green eyes followed him speculatively as the mage walked back to Cynthas. The man held her close. His voice was very deep and mellow, but as he spoke there was sadness.

The battle's won, beloved, but I feel we've lost so much more.

Don't say that, whispered Cynthas.

Bene stared down at her for long moments, his gaze intent. When he spoke his voice was almost a snarl.

There are times when I curse my fate.

I can wait, responded Cynthas. Nymphs live very long lives.

As do we, replied Bene.

Cynthas put a hand to his cheek. Maybe this isn't meant to be. Perhaps -.

No! I'll find you and come. I promise you. Believe me.

Cynthas turned Bene gently to face the dragon who tossed his head, a flicker of flame wisping from his jaw. Bene rubbed his forehead. He glared at the dragon. Dramas merely gave a quiet hiss, idly flexed a wing, and absorbed the mage's stare.

Sometimes, mumbled Bene, I'm not sure if I'm the dragon, or he's me.

Go now, urged Cynthas, pushing Bene into the dragon.

Dramas' eyes swirled thoughtfully at the nymph as she watched Bene climb over his side, grasp a fin, and haul himself up onto the spiked ridge. He settled in a natural, very deep hollow between two sets of spikes. Dramas trumpeted.

Cynthas ran back a distance. Scooping up the catlin as she went, she shook her head sharply when the dragon roared a second time and was almost flattened by the blast of hot air that accompanied the spreading of the colossal red wings. The dragon hovered briefly. As he did, Bene looked down at the tiny figure below, both he and Dramas astonished at the strong teleth that touched their minds.

Care for him, Dramas.

As Dramas' beating wings drove him ever higher, Cynthas stayed crouched against a boulder as dust and stones flew up and about her. When the catlin pressed hard in against her, she absently ran a hand over its back while she continued to stare into a now empty sky.

~~~

The mages on Yarilo recovered and grew in strength and power. The dragons withdrew to their Isle. The people of Ambros flourished and spread across their world. North and South thrived in the Third Age. The voice of the mages was heard through the Conclave of Reader Seekers, the Watchers were vigilant and Adepts and Initiates spread across the northern and southern continents. The Rox watched for any sign of dark disturbance. The Unseen Ones disappeared and hadn't been seen for a very long time. The cycles passed. Tranquillity came to Ambros. It was a Golden Age.

~~~

And Malekim licked his wounds and waited. He was patient. He needed time to heal. He'd become a pitiless, hollow being, an abomination. As he painfully recovered, so he grew in power. Somewhere, he knew, the balance would be ruffled, even minutely. He'd wait for that and use it for his own ends. It motivated his survival. Time brought him strength.

THIRD AGE: THE BEGINNING

A quotation from Ochleos Rox, Guardian on Lilium, to the Mages of Yarilo and to the Conclave of Reader-Seekers on Ambros.

Through the struggles that have come and will come again, shall a balance be restored to Ambros. It must be understood. The Watchers and Guardians must be ever vigilant. Those to whom the balance is entrusted must fulfil their duty by ensuring it.

They must look for the child who's made a shadow and thus becomes a child of the dark. There'll be a child born of light and dark who'll of all kinds be made into one. The child will have power. Teach the child to use it wisely so that it doesn't become an instrument of chaos.

The paths of these children, and those touching them, will be very hard. They'll be torn between powers they can't comprehend. Watch for all the children who hold the balance of Ambros in their hands. In the binding, those of the dark and the light will unite to become one.

Only then will the balance be immutable and Ambros finally at peace. This wisdom is given to me to pass on to you. Take heed. Ignore it at your peril.

CHAPTER FOUR

START OF A PROPHECY

Now, with his hair so liberally sprinkled with white that little auburn was apparent, Bene stood in a clearing observing the nymph. He smiled as he leaned nonchalantly against the dappled trunk of a ule tree, slowly and absently stripping bits off a leaf. The smile faded to be replaced by a deeply thoughtful expression.

Cynthas threw a heavy plait over her shoulder, rose from the grass and trod lightly over to where Bene stood, looked up at him, and stood on tiptoe so she could run a finger across his face. Bene held her, his eyes fixed on her dark head.

You're concerned, aren't you? Cynthas asked.

I've no authority to be here, admitted Bene. If it was known what I came for I'd have been stopped. Dramas wasn't happy to bring me.

I know he wasn't. Cynthas pulled Bene's head down to hers and gently kissed him. I called him, telling him I wished you to come this once.

Bene pulled up his head startled, saying, You called him? I'll come again. You must know I wouldn't leave you. Bene paused, then added softly. We do no harm.

Listen to me, Bene, she whispered. Dramas won't bring you again. We've waited so long. It was my longing that brought you here.

Bene leaned forward and held Cynthas in his arms, where he cradled her, murmuring gently to her as he rocked back and forth.

When he reluctantly let her go, he said calmly, It takes two to love, Cynthas. I'll return. Cynthas smiled mistily up at the face she loved so dearly.

I know you'll try, Bene - I know if you can come, you will. I'll always wait for you. You must know that whatever happens, Bene, I'll understand.

Not entirely comprehending such a cryptic comment Bene turned, his violet eyes a little wild.

I can't stay, he said, his voice unsteady. Dramas makes such insistent calls.

I can hear him, said Cynthas ruefully. You should listen to him. He's very wise.

He fusses so, muttered Bene. Impulsively he stretched out his arms to Cynthas saying thickly, I'll come back. Abruptly, he released her and turned away, unable to look back.

Cynthas stood where he'd left her. All was silence, calm and warmth, but even so, Cynthas gave a deep shiver. She watched until Bene was lost to sight, then she sat in the grass and quietly wept.

~~~

As Bene and Cynthas lay entwined that day, Malekim was aroused from a relaxed doze by the slightest tug at his mind. His eyes lit with a predatory light and a smile touched the thin lips; the eyes remained mirthless. He felt the tug again, almost imperceptible, before it passed. He closed his eyes though the smile broadened. He knew his strength rapidly returned. In not too many Yarilan cycles, he'd be ready.

~~~

Not only Malekim was roused on this day. Sophos Rox was lying comfortably stretched out when he felt a faint mental intrusion. Irritably he ignored it, but only for a brief second, then his eyes snapped open sharply, aware something of concern touched him. He was so attuned to Ambros nothing escaped him. He sat, more alert, and tried to recollect the sensation he'd experienced, and, as he did he felt another slight tug at his mind. He thought it was a dragon call but couldn't be sure. He opened to teleth and waited.

Sophos Rox was a guardian and very old. If anyone asked him his age, Sophos would've found it very difficult to answer, because time for him became irrelevant some hundreds of Ambrosian cycles earlier. He was a magnificent example of his species.

His head was mostly gold. It was a noble head, with very dark brown eyes set above a broad, long black nose. His tall, pointed ears were dark, the hair in and around them long and delicately curled, and his folded wings were cream, as were parts of his chest and face. When he took Ambros form, which he preferred not to do, he was extremely tall and well-built. Even for his species, he was large.

As he waited, a scene slowly formed in front of him that he watched carefully. A huge dragon, Dramas, Sophos recognised with a touch of surprise, had just landed in a meadow somewhere in central Ambros. Sophos knew the dragon shouldn't be there. When Sophos saw Bene alight and commune briefly with his dragon before he walked briskly towards trees, the Rox followed. In a clearing by a small stream, sat Cynthas.

Warnings rang in Sophos' mind. He telethed his concern to other Guardians and to the dragons. Dramas trumpeted in response, Sophos noticed, but Bene ignored him. Collectively the guardians telethed Bene: with a flash of mutual anger and surprise, they realised Bene had deliberately closed off communication.

~~~

Ever since the troubles caused by Dire, neither Rox, dragons nor mages mated with Ambrosians. It had been frowned on for so long, no one gave it any thought. For a mage to mate in such a way was rare. Sharing between Ambrosian and Ambrosian nymph wasn't a serious breach, because such interspecies affaires were invariably sterile, but Sophos Rox, with a sigh, acknowledged that the attraction between Bene and Cynthas was well known.

Sophos Rox was no voyeur. He snapped the image closed and received the perturbation of all the Guardians at once. He carefully sifted through the voices until he found the one he wanted - the Guardian who oversaw the training of mages.

Sophos, came the soft thought in his mind.

Lektos, was the response. Both Guardians closed down the thoughts of others and came instantly into focus in the other's mind. Sophos saw the sorrow in Lektos' eyes.

Did you know about this, brother? Sophos asked quietly. Lektos sighed.

Their working together so long ago wasn't wise. I accept that in hindsight. Their regard for each other wasn't merely passing.

It was a mistake, admitted Sophos. I should've foreseen this. Dramas knew Bene wasn't to go back to Ambros so soon in Yarilan time, so I'm at a loss to know why he did.

How could any of us foresee this? Sophos moved restlessly before he answered.

Bene's closed to all avenues of communication. There was an odd tone to Lektos's voice in response.

Dramas was to advise me if Bene requested to go to Ambros. I had no warning of this. Bene didn't call Dramas, or if he did, it wasn't in the usual way. That puzzles me too. Bene clearly wished his time with the nymph to be solitary, and that's not something we can chide him for.

Maybe Dramas thought you'd stop Bene, suggested Sophos.

Perhaps I should've intervened, Lektos sighed. But I knew too late. I repeat, Dramas didn't say Bene requested to go to Ambros. This confuses me. Could it possibly be that Cynthas has the ability to actually call Dramas? There was a long silence.

If you look forward, brother, you may well have taken swifter action.

Have you gone ahead, Sophos? Sophos nodded. Lektos looked long at his brother, saying finally, They must have freedom of action, brother. We all know that, despite what the consequences might be. I don't solely choose the mages. The sadness in Sophos' eyes was reflected in Lektos' deep voice.

No, agreed Sophos gently. We have to accept they all have shadow and light. Now our task's to try to control any damage.

If we can.

If, said Sophos quietly, repeating Lektos, we can.

Bene must not return to Ambros.

He won't, said Sophos tersely. Dramas will see to that. There was a long silence between the two Rox again.

After the very thoughtful pause, Lektos asked, How far did you see, Sophos?

To Cynthas.

So you saw a child? Sophos sighed this time,

I did. I don't believe Bene knows of this. He'd know such unions are invariably sterile.

Not this time.

This alters everything. There was another long pause before Lektos spoke.

Brother, early on I felt the faintest trace of awareness.

So, Lektos, did I. Lektos gave a deep growl.

Who has an awareness of this breach in the balance?

If it was possible for a Rox to do so, then Sophos almost snarled. He drew his lips back from his teeth.

The fool, he murmured. The fool Bene is. Couldn't an Archmage see beyond his immediate passion? Lektos sighed.

Every action precipitates a reaction, isn't that so? Sophos looked at Lektos, concern deep in his dark eyes.

It's the future that could threaten the balance, yes, he answered. It's not just the here and now. He paused, then added, There'll be a response - Bene can expect it. Lektos sighed even more heavily.

The prophecy could be a child of their child.

Sophos nodded broodingly, accepting his brother's comment without argument. Lektos' image faded leaving Sophos with a feeling of unease. The balance was all: they had to ensure it. His main focus of attention was going to have to be on somewhere in the central part of Ambros. Sophos Rox wondered if he was being fanciful as his mind began to seek out any sign of Malekim. He stared down at the orb resting against his chest. It was quiescent.

CHAPTER FIVE

TILTING THE BALANCE OF A WORLD

Bene was back on Yarilo. He stared out the windows for a long time before he shivered, rose, crossed to the fire and kicked a piece of wood more firmly in the grate. He pulled a chair closer to the fire. An absent flick of the fingers made the fire burn more fiercely. Bene stared into the flames, watching them jet and pulse in flickering orange and yellow, his mind in turmoil. His feelings were mixed.

He was restless. He also felt guilt. Dramas was distressed by being on Ambros. Even though the dragon clearly responded to Cynthas and not directly to himself, something that in itself was highly unusual, still the mage knew he shouldn't have gone.

He wondered how long it would take the Rox to contact the Unseen Ones; he knew he would hear from one or other of them. It was only a matter of time.

It was as if Bene called the Unseen Ones as he thought of them. Sharp queries cut rudely into his mind, along with surprise and amusement. Never before had Bene experienced physical pain as their minds melded with his, but tonight there was no gentleness, their minds curiously probing his emotions and their disinterested comments making him wince. Mostly he was aware of Benth, coldly detached and analytical.

I acknowledge your presence, Bene said unsteadily.

As well you might, came the dry voice he knew was Benth.

What can I tell you that you don't already know?

Why you used Dramas as you did, mage, came Marl's voice.

I wanted to see Cynthas. She mindspoke Dramas and asked him to take me, only the once. I intended no abuse of my dragon.

Did she indeed? There was curiosity in Marl's cold voice and the ghost of a laugh. So Dramas felt obliged, did he? Again came the laugh. That passed to fleeting deep anger about another dragon called Harth.

Should I regret what I did?

You should. Have you such arrogance? came a detached voice. A murmur of words and phrases cut backwards and forwards across Bene's mind that he tried to follow without success. Let us show you, mage, what you've done, came a frigid voice. Maybe then you'll have your answer.

Bene sat motionless as an image formed in front of him, so real he felt he could touch Cynthas. He looked into the green eyes of a nymph. The eyes were so big and lustrous they dominated the elfin face, the curved mouth smiled sensuously at him and the eyes were alight with laughter. The pointed chin rested on a slender hand as she shook her dark curls at him playfully. When he responded by putting out his hand the image slipped, faltered, distorted and abruptly disintegrated.

A second image quickly appeared. This was of a tall, dark-haired woman with large violet eyes as velvety as Bene's own; it was the face that made Bene flinch back in stunned shock, because the young woman could be none other than his daughter. His mind reeled at this. She held a little boy's hand and she too laughed. The picture changed sharply to a room where huge blond men held the same woman prone on the floor, knives in their hands and pitiless destruction in their eyes. Bene couldn't move. He sat transfixed.

He was swept to another image of a stumbling boy in a slave caravan, the boy's back blistered with sores and welts. The child kept moving, but as Bene watched, the boy lifted his head and licked slowly at tears that trickled down his face. The image fragmented.

Bene next saw a limp figure, carried on a litter, the young man obviously very weak and fevered. His injuries were such, Bene drew in his breath. The image was replaced by yet another. This showed a beautiful boy, no more that ten or eleven Ambros cycles, lying in a pavilion, his dark curly head thrown back, the lustrous velvet purple eyes wild, his hands out-flung and his mouth wide open. A huge blond man was with him. The man smiled, though the smile didn't touch his ice cold blue eyes.

Bene got to his feet. He stood there, helplessly, while yet another image formed. He looked at a little girl who, apart from her deep violet eyes, was a copy of Cynthas, this child's hand clasped by a blond youth who led her through the gates of a city