Firestar: Chronicles of Feyree, #3

By Claudia Newcorn

What choice would you make if saving your realm demands that you sacrifice yourself?

Goaded by his scheming high councilor, Eshel, the Firelord Tvashtar Tizon has broken his treaty and invaded Lampion in winter's heart. Able to wield devastating fire magic, the former Feyree's troops are virtually unstoppable, and have conquered the majority of the Feyree strongholds despite all efforts to resist.

The Lady of the Lake lies frozen beneath impenetrable ice, and Danai's dragon tears are secreted somewhere in the Great Dell, but Warlord Toron and the Lady of Feyree refuse to concede defeat and desperately rally their folk, even as devastating battles and traitorous Feyree threaten to extinguish all hope.

Emissaries have been sent to both the elves and dwarves, but after centuries of separation, will they heed the call to battle? Even if they do, will it be enough to stop the rampaging daemons?

Danai, Joson, and Damon must choose between friendship, treachery and sacrifice as they struggle to prevent their former friend and his warriors from conquering Lampion. Their choices will shatter everything they believe in about themselves and each other. With their world at stake, what will they choose? And who at last will wear the Lord of Feyree's crown?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Theogony Books
• Release date: Dec 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781942936961

Book preview

Prologue

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For a thousand winters, the realm of Feyree had lived in peace, the brutal tyrant Solon and the horrific Battle of Sagad little more than Skald lore. But now, by their own choice, devastating change was upon them...

Long ago in the quiet of the world, the elven Ael, dwarf Troich, and Feyree dwelt in the woodlands and meadows of Lampion. Unseen in a parallel daemension was Nonetre, realm of the fire daemiani.

The Feyree descended from fragmented groups that survived the great battle and coalesced into isolated cave-dwelling clans. During these Days of Dimness were born the Twins, who would later become lawgivers and leaders. Over time, the clans outgrew the caves, and established themselves in glens, dells, and vales, each led by two Chief Tains, all guided by the sacred triad of the Lord and Lady of Feyree and the Dolmen. The heart of Feyree was the Great Dell; the hilltop stronghold of Revelstoke its High Seat. Beneath Lunasa’s sacred moonlight and guarded by the earth Mother who created Lampion, Feyree lived in harmony.

Young wingless Feyree, known as sprytes, must earn their wings by surviving the progressively more dangerous initiation Rites of Krisalys. Under the stern guidance of Mentors and their highest Loremaster, the Dolmen, the sprytes are challenged to acquire the skills and magic to cross over and become full-fledged Feyree. Among the newest pod of sprytes are Danai and her best friend, Pook.

Danai is unaware of the old legend that a Feyree of silver skin, hair, and emerald eyes is always a harbinger of great change. Pook does not know that the ancient Herald Eshel, High Talushim of Nonetre, has prophesied his arrival to rescue the daemiani before they are extinguished by their own way of life.

A growing unease casts a troubling pall over the Rites as things go wrong from the start. Increasingly bizarre happenings shadow both Pook and Danai, even as they and their friends Damon, Joson, and Rhytha, struggle to learn the complexities of their folk and survive a realm far more dangerous than they had ever imagined. When Tlarg the dwarf brings Danai to visit the sacred Anam, and it reveals a tortuous vision that none can decipher, the Dolmen grows convinced that eliminating her is the only way to prevent a terrifying future from coming to pass. Using his great magic and powers of persuasion, he pursues his aims... 

Yet Danai is only a part of the troubles. When a fire daemon invites a restless Pook to Nonetre, he eagerly accepts, fascinated by a completely different realm. Crossing over, he sets in motion events that will transmute him into the daemiani’s Firelord, Tvashtar Tizon. He returns as the Rites conclude to petition the Lord and Lady of Feyree for an alliance, secure in his knowledge that what Nonetre has to offer will benefit both realms, and enable them to break free of their stagnant traditions. Or so he believes.

But Tizon’s scheming Herald Eshel has many other plans, ones that will irrevocably change the future of Nonetre and the realm of the Feyree forever...

* * * * *

Chapter I

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At the utmost edge of hearing, despite the clear winter sky, came a faint grumble of thunder.

Dimly, as if mired in some dark dream, Chief Tain Morval heard Warlord Mailyn’s voice, grim with determined fury. They’re coming. Giving a curt nod, his eyes tracked Guardians as they darted among the assembled Feyree, checking to make sure each bore shield and blade. Others were passing out marlspikes, unwinding the tethers that enabled the spiked chestnut hulls to be swung with deadly accuracy. The rasp of rippers drew his eyes; Dimya was distributing the stiffened redberry leaves that when hurled, would sever flesh and bone. Spear tips flashed like tears as his folk arranged themselves behind the hastily erected barrier of twigs and small branches gathered by the birds during the rush of preparation for the inevitable attack. At least they had been forewarned! The curved berm arched between two steep snow-streaked hills in a desperate attempt to shield Rymple Dell. His dell. His home.

Again, he looked skywards, glimpsed Guardian Taramea speeding back towards the Wynndowns on her jay to survey the approaching fire daemiani. Over two hundred warriors, she had said! There were not that many Guardians in all of Lampion. The folk of Feyree were not trained for war – there had been no need since Solon’s defeat at the Battle of Sagad a thousand winters past. Regret and rage twisted his gut. How could they have been so easily duped by Tvashtar Tizon’s assurances that the alliance with Nonetre would benefit them all? Lies, all treacherous lies!

Eldrich, will you not reconsider? Mailyn prodded his shoulder. Chief Tain Biagi can still lead the ladies, maidens, and sprytes to our safe haven cave and escape the assault.

You heard her. None of them will remotely consider flight. They will fight. For our home. As will we all. Adjusting the copper battle helm more securely about his amber face, he had to smile, quietly proud of his fellow Chief Tain. Long had they guided their beloved dell. Would they see another dawnshine together? May Lunasa and the Mother guard us against these horrors!

With a stiff bow, Mailyn flew off, wishing he could express his conviction that Lunasa and the Mother had abandoned Feyree; that only by some miracle would they survive. Landing atop the barrier’s center point, he surveyed the throng, a brittle grin etching his gaunt copper features as he spied groups of sprytes heaping snowballs on top of the many snow-capped grass hummocks huddled like hairy knobs throughout the maidan. Thrice he struck his blade hilt on his shield. All noise ceased. Every face turned towards him, aglow with countless emotions. I must speak with sincerity, he thought. My fears are mine alone. Heed me, brave folk of Rymple Dell! Fight in pairs that you may guard each other’s backs. Doff your cloaks that you may be nimble in flight. Waste no time slashing at limbs – strike to kill, for they will do likewise. If you hear this windhorn’s summons, he held aloft the copper windhorn, silver scrollwork glinting in the sunlight, retreat to the Meander River. May Lunasa grant us victory! A half a heartbeat before they roared back the battle cry, he again caught the faintest mutter of thunder. Above, the brilliant azure sky had given way to a wispy pall dulling the sun. Was weather going to make a bad situation worse?

Taramea’s jay swooped in and she sprang off his back to land beside Mailyn, fern-green face pinched with disbelief. They command fire! Like a spear! Aharon and Darkwing dove low to harry their rear guard. Blasts of flame swallowed both in a scream of fire. We can not defend against that. We must flee or die!

Naught can convince the Chief Tains nor our dell folk. They will not flee, and they will indeed die. He felt another ominous rumble, glanced northeast to see a green-tinted froth of soiled gray clouds.

That is not thunder. Taramea pointed. It is the tramp of the fire daemiani.

Through the distant trees surged the warriors. Brilliant as gemstones, flames flickering behind pointed fire-crown blazoned shields that protected them ankle to throat. At their head strode a scarlet-caped daemon, indigo-streaked blue flames ablaze. An errant gust swirled sparkling embers above them, then swept a smoky stench into the dell, rattling the dry grasses in the sudden silence.

Brave folk, fear not! Like flowers to sunlight, the Feyree looked to Chief Tain Biagi fluttering above them, amber wings widespread, bronze skin glowing as brightly as her high-held blade. Let none doubt our right to defend our dell against these loathsome toads. Let them discover that here dwell no insipid folk. Nay! Instead they shall suffer our mettle, our strength, and woe betide them!!

Despite the rousing cheer, Mailyn could not miss the fear that brightened every eye in the dulling light as heavy-bellied clouds lumbered towards the dell from the Rymple Mountains. The daemiani were now close enough that he could distinguish features. Eerie, he thought. Akin to Feyree in their many hues, but as if carved from living fire, swathed in ever-shifting flames. Eagerness hungered in their embered eyes.

Their leader raised a hand; the warriors halted. Striding arrogantly towards the barrier, his harsh shout was audible to all. "Feyree folk of Lampion. I am Malis, andastariq of Nonetre. Submit and no harm shall befall you. Rather you shall come under the safe dominion of our mighty Firelord, Tvashtar Tizon, and be only the better for it. Will you surrender?"

Flying to the barrier’s crest, Morval uttered a taunting laugh. Hollow words! More falsehoods to be heaped upon those spouted by your traitorous lord. Your warriors give lie to all your words. We shall neither surrender nor submit!

Upon your heads so be it! Malis was clearly pleased at the reply. He bellowed over his shoulder at an orange-caped daemon. Tarishk, attack!!

As if in a goldenvine dew-induced stupor, Mailyn marveled at how everything seemed to slow down, body movements controlled, almost contemplative. Like the surge of a river in spring thaw, colorful flames crackling, the warriors charged the barrier, their guttural war cry of Tvashtar Tizon! trembling the air. The barrier began to sizzle and smoke, twigs igniting, forcing the nearest Feyree to recoil.

Set spears! Mailyn yelled. Butts jammed in the sticky mud, Feyree braced their spears just as the first row of daemiani hurled themselves over the barrier. He heard the scrape of spear points skittering across shields, agonized shrieks as others found their marks. Echoing screams as daemiani blades hewed Feyree flesh. A burly maroon daemon appeared before him, its mouth a cavern of flame, shield askew. Leaping high, Mailyn folded his wings, plunged down, and slashed off the daemon’s head, only to have another take its place.

Hack. Parry. Dodge. The dell was a tumult of screams, flashes, metal rasping on metal, squishy thuds as bodies collapsed to be trampled upon. In the shadows of his thoughts, Mailyn sensed there were more fey than daemiani underfoot. Manic shrieks from atop a nearby hummock snatched his attention. A group of sprytes was wildly pelting daemiani with snowballs, others heaving heaps of snow on any that approached. To his astonishment, the warriors lurched aside, desperately trying to shield themselves from the soaking deluge, veering off to seek easier prey.

From behind came a familiar bellow. Spinning about, he saw Morval and Malis, hacking at each other, blades a spark-spewing blur. The daemon’s red cape had been shorn off, leaving a twist of scarlet cord across his throat like a wound. Morval was winning, smashing blow after blow, beating the daemon back. Fury convulsed Malis’ face. Sliding his shield back along his forearm to free a hand, he pointed. A fireball erupted, engulfing the Chief Tain. For a heartbeat, Morval held his shape in fire, before collapsing in a swirl of ash. He did not even have a chance to scream, Mailyn thought. Malis laughed, shouting his warriors on to victory.

Lunging through the dwindling battle, Mailyn saw nothing but Malis’ back. Heard nothing but the pounding of his heart – or was it thunder? – as a sudden icy blast of wind swirled up the Chief Tain’s ashes and scattered them into the daemon’s face, forcing him to scrub at his eyes. The daemon staggered, toppled, kicked loose from Mailyn’s blade as the Warlord jerked it free, then leaped forward to defend Chief Tain Biagi.

Wind the horn, she gasped. Wind the horn!!

Wailing a retreat, the horn’s shrill cry startled the daemiani long enough that those on the wrong side of combat could dodge through to rejoin the Feyree. Those that attempted to fly were hurled towards the river by a sudden fierce gust as the air took on a greenish tinge. Thunder boomed, air swelling with a snow-laden wind that swept the Wynndown’s slopes, chattering the bare branches. Screeches erased the daemiani’s victory shouts as they blazed wildly under the storm’s unrelenting caress.

Thundersnow, Mailyn realized, just as the hungry wind yanked at his wings. He gawked at the shrieking Tarishk as the wind whipped his flames into an inferno, consuming him to ash. Like rabbits being chivied by a hungry hunter, daemiani dashed madly every which way, trampling over each other as they sought shelter, frantic to escape the wind’s lash. Some cowered behind the grass hummocks only to be smothered as the wind-loosened snow caps slid off with a crunch. Fat snowflakes hurled past, wrapping themselves around daemiani who squealed as if burnt.

Warlord, what would you have us do?

Mailyn turned to encounter Chief Tain Biagi, just ahead of a cluster of Feyree, other small clumps scattered further behind. The storm, he knew, would kill them as uncaringly as it was destroying the invaders. Already the fast-falling snow was shrouding the still forms heaped across the maidan, entombing them until spring thaw would release them for burial. They had but one choice. Retreat until the storm passed. Gazing into exhausted faces, some blood smeared, he felt rage and sorrow coil beneath his heart. Of the nearly three hundred that had risen to battle, at most fifty remained. Mostly sprytes. If we are to survive, get inside!

Feyree streamed towards the grass hummocks in which were hidden the entries to the dell’s underground passages. As Mailyn ducked under a madly-flapping grass overhang, he jerked to a halt. Huddled on his knees against the thick stems, a slender silvery blue daemon stared up with pleading eyes. What Mailyn surmised was blood smoked blackly from a shoulder gash.

Feyree surrounded him, blades rising. Murderer! Traitor! Kill him!

A calmness spread over the daemon’s features. He rose to face them, empty-handed, dented shield and blade discarded at his feet. Blue flames flickered silver.

No! Mailyn disregarded the infuriated protests. No, I say! He may be of use to us. Obey your Warlord! Daemon, we offer to you the same choice you gave us. Surrender. Or die! He raised his blade.

Hesitating, the daemon licked his lips. Swallowed. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head.

* * *

She can’t be frozen under the ice! We need her! Danai stamped with frustration. Glinting in the rays of sunlight struggling through thickening clouds, the ice-clad Silver Lake seemed to wink at her in mockery.

Didn’t you know the Ancient Ones sleep as deeply as the wood folk? Beside her, Warlord Diestel glanced up as dark roiling clouds extinguished the sun, a frown on his amber face. For hundreds of winters has it been so. How could any guess our realm would be besieged in winter’s heart? The Lady of the Lake can be of no help to us until the lake thaws. And who knows when that might be? Come. Guide us to the cave.

A rumble echoed in the distance. Chief Tain Symnon cocked his head. Thundersnow’s coming. We need to get inside. Quickly! See? Even our birds hasten to seek storm shelter.

With a final despairing glance at the unrelenting ice, Danai rejoined the waiting band of Feyree. Their fear-brilliant eyes clung to her every move. All because of Tizon! Wending her way among jutting rocks beneath trembling curled ferns whose tips were frozen in ice, she peered ahead at the white cliff that curved about the lake’s western shore, flanked by outcroppings of dark stone. There! That shadow behind the bent rock in front of the left cliff. You can’t see it unless you know exactly where to look.

Ah, a true safe haven from the Days of Dimness. Symnon’s voice was as bitter as the wind. To think that another tyrant has forced us to return to those times.

Easing through the narrow cleft, they emerged into gloom. Damp cold stabbed through her heavy winter cloak and Danai shivered, then invoked the warming spell, grateful as the heat swathed her body. She watched as the dusky orange Chief Tain issued orders to start a fire, assigned bower spaces, and parsed out the cave into a dwelling, even as Diestel and two other Guardians prowled the perimeter, inspecting for anything amiss or evidence of a hunter’s lair. Graying bands of light from the scattering of angled shafts that pierced the cavern roof cast a weird glow. What had happened to all those Feyree that had chosen to remain behind at Tequestar Glen to submit, she worried. In sudden anger, she slipped back outside.

Shielding her eyes, she felt the wind snatch back her cowl and tousle her mop of silver hair, flapping the dark green cloak like the pennants on Revelstoke’s watchtowers. They would have abandoned the High Seat of Feyree by now, she knew. Had Toron and Joson reached Glyffshado Glen? And where had Damon vanished to? Turning her back to the strengthening gusts, she again strove to mind-link with Lady Argentyne. The Blessed One had saved Lampion before – they needed her now. Nothingness repulsed her attempts. She whirled about as a sudden fierce gust clattered through the barren aspens that girded the lake’s far shore and jumped high to dodge the dirq-edged ice crystals that skittered past. I should go in, she mused. Before the storm knocks me flat.

All hail, all hail our Tvashtar! For a moment, a vision of an elated Tizon clouded her sight, harsh ecstatic voices crackling like fresh-lit fire. Then it swirled away like Feyree dust in a stream. Tvashtar Tizon. He was once Pook, my dearest friend. How could he invade Lampion, his home? Or was it really that pond scum Eshel manipulating him? He had torched the Dolmen and Lord Andamion. The wind’s rising wail seemed to echo Lady Atelai’s agonized keening beside her lord’s crisped carcass. Danai’s fists clenched inside her sleeves. I will not let him win. He will not destroy my realm under some insane delusion he’ll make it a better place. I swear it! A flake of snow wrapped around her head, icy points grazing her cheek.

Danai, get back in here! Dorol bellowed from just within the cave’s entry. This isn’t a Flurryfest! If I’m worth anything as a Weathercaster, this storm is going to be a bad one!

Shoved by a savage gust, she nearly toppled off her feet. Once inside, she heard her podmate Siddiqui call her name, located her with Healer Andrus on the far side of the cave, and started towards them. This storm must have already struck Tequestar Glen. I wonder if it’s reached Revelstoke?

* * *

"Tariq Ishtask, we must seek shelter! Miroq gestured at the mushrooming clouds. If this is anything like our whirlstorms in Nonetre, then we will be snuffed to cinders, and all Lord Tizon’s plans undone. Our shield spell is no match for strong winds, well you know."

In the distance, Ishtask heard wind moaning through the trees, the first breeze fanning his warriors’ flames brighter in the dulling light. A prickling of snow crystals stung his arms, flames sputtering. At Andastariq Malis’ command, the strykers that had passed through the breach from Nonetre into Lampion on the Wynndown’s west flank had split, and his marched through the forest to Tequestar Glen, while Malis veered south to Rymple Dell. How was Saris, newly assigned by Tarishk to conquer the most valuable target, Kristal Glen, coping with this storm? And why had the Talushim, Nonetre’s high loremasters, not scried it?

Crouching clumps of leafless bushes rattled around them, branches dueling in the blustering wind. A few faded leaves whirled past, were snagged and shredded by a ridge of sharp-thorned brambles. Used to the wide empty plains and barren hills of Nonetre, Ishtask felt trapped, crowded by all these things. Tales told that once Nonetre looked like this; where had it all vanished to? His flames crackled as another ominous gust sucked by.

What about those trees? Miroq pointed his blade at three well-spaced trees perhaps ten daemon-lengths away. Seamed with uninviting cracks, they were skirted by broken branches long-fallen from their dead crowns. Barkless wood gleamed weirdly in the dulling light as they creaked and groaned beneath the wind’s heavy hand. Hurrying forward, Ishtask neared the largest, a deep black hollow gouging a hole between its roots. He guessed from the tree’s girth that not all his warriors would fit within.

Miroq, take your troop to the left tree. Shaddash, you the right. If they offer little space in which to hide, huddle among the roots and beneath the debris on the side away from this cursed wind! We can only sit out the storm. Move! Thunder trampled his last words, sending the warriors scurrying away like embers.

As he pushed inside their tree, Miroq coughed at the stench of rotting wood, mold, and some other unknown stink. He forced himself further in, wondering if anything else was already occupying the hollow, aware of the warriors’ hesitant steps behind him.

"What is that?" Jizal pointed, everyone peering up the tree’s center. Cored long ago by decay, it was aglow with luminescent yellowish-white blobs.

Some bizarre growth. We’ll learn all about this strange place in time. Miroq raised his voice. Is everyone in? Count off!

At the other tree, Shaddash had discovered the crack was barely two daemon-lengths deep, useless as a hiding place. As his warriors huddled behind a log, he peered about. Nearby was a root-wrapped rock. He glimpsed what looked like a hole yawning along its edge. Dodging among the forest duff, he squatted before it. A dark passage appeared to dive beneath the stone. It would have to do. Bellowing, waving his spear, he summoned his fellows. Grumbles about having to hide in a hole like some thrall were abruptly silenced by the first fat flakes of snow spiraling past, and soon they were packed inside a largish cave, watching the entry light flicker strangely in the flakes’ passing shadows.

A deep boom shuddered their tree. Ishtask sighed at the nervous murmurs as wide-eyed warriors jostled about. Thoughts slipping back to Nonetre, he wished once again that he had not been summoned to Iskamorlach to train the warriors. What would have happened if the Herald had known he was a rebellionist, he dared not imagine. He had kept his views behind his teeth, although he knew many believed invading Lampion was a preposterous notion from an ancient leader that had outlived his wisdom. But too many objectors had been snuffed out – cast into the fiery lake of Keothach, or doomed to endless wandering in Iomask’s labyrinth under the mighty stronghold of Naloch. Eshel suffered none to challenge him. Ever.

How fast it falls!

Glancing out the crack, Ishtask frowned at the swift-mounting white barrier spanning the gap. Already the snow stood knee-high, and from the blur of wind-hurled flakes, the storm seemed to be intensifying. How perverse! Trapped by a storm even as the Firelord had sought to trap the Feyree in their glens with his invasion. There came an abrupt silence as the wind caught its breath. Every sound suddenly seemed too loud.

Listen! Do you hear something? Several crowded the crack, hands cupped to ears, flames darkening with concentration. For a heartbeat came hideous shrieks of terror. Then the wind skirled anew, smothered by a deafening bang of thunder.

Likely just this accursed wind, Ishtask soothed, a little too loudly. Think of how it cries like voices as it races among the stones on the Plains of Nur. There is much more for it to scrape against here. Just as his words ceased, another momentary lull permitted a scream to tear at them. As one, they rushed to the crack, peering over each other. Those at the fore gasped.

Through a fog of swirling flakes, they could see a jumble of daemiani pouring out from beneath a rock, crashing into sticks in their haste to escape, too terrified to heed the warning clatter of branches. Slipping on a smear of ice, two fell behind a huge pinecone just before a lethal gust slashed the snow aside, ensnaring the others into blazing shrieks of flame. Then their ashes along with their weapons were dragged across the snow to disappear into the depthless white. At another lull, the survivors floundered towards Ishtask’s tree, searing their way through the snow that clutched hungrily at their legs. Eager hands hauled them through the crack as fear-scorched questions battered them.

Silence! Ishtask’s shout boomed hollowly. Shaddash, what possessed you? Where are the others?

Dead. Devoured. I don’t know. Shaddash spoke between gulps of air, aqua flames shivering black. We were attacked from behind. Our tree wasn’t hollow, so we took refuge in what we thought was a cave beneath a rock. The storm prevented us from hearing whatever that thing was that snuck up from behind. Those horrible eyes! It screeched when it bit into Timlas, clawing at anything, crushing, stamping. As if bitten by madness, most bolted outside, forgetting the wind. Those who remained fought back, but our weapons and charbursts just enraged the brute. It was so huge, we succeeded in burning only a part of its body. Worse, we could hear fast-approaching squeals echoing down the passage behind it, and so fled to a more merciful death.

About to reprimand Shaddash, Ishtask instead flinched at a blinding dazzle of light, followed by an incredible explosion of thunder and loud crash that shuddered the ground, causing chunks of rotting wood to cascade upon them. Nothing could be seen by those who peered outside. Whatever it had been would have to wait until this storm released them. An easy and glorious victory, the Tvashtar had promised! But that had been in the hot dry sunlight of Nonetre.

And they still had to conquer Tequestar Glen.

* * *

Gazing at the madly swirling snow from within the protection of Tequestar Glen’s main cliff entry, Chief Tain Manichia wrestled with her nagging worries. None of her folk could suspect she was afraid. No. Not afraid. More a deep dread. Sentinels had reported seeing the daemiani troops erupt through a breach near Pyre Tor, winging back to report they had split, half headed for Rymple, half for Tequestar. But it was too late for her folk to prepare a defense. Startled by a deafening boom, she stared as lightstrikes chiseled the forest into weird shapes and shadows. The thundersnow was only prolonging her mental torment. She watched as the flakes shimmered in the gathering gloaming, trembling to brightness in the lightstrikes’ flashes.

Why, why, why? The moment she surrendered, she knew she would be Chief Tain in name only. How could she have been so thick-witted? But the daemiani’s new methods – especially a barrier to protect her glen from flooding – had utterly intrigued her. She had been willing to give them a chance. Seduced by my desire to acquire new ways, she mused bitterly. Symnon warned me. A gentle tap on her shoulder jerked her around.

Manichia, what are your plans? The daemiani will demand food, bowers. Where are we to fit them? Healer Guild Master Farrell stared with pity at the anguish glowing in her taupe eyes. But she had made her bower; now she must lie in it. A fierce lightstrike slammed into the woods some distance off. The dreadful crack of a tree toppling was borne towards them on the rushing wind, only to be devoured in the next shout of thunder.

A clatter of rocks cascaded down to join the pile that skirted the cliffs edging much of Tequestar’s maidan, distracting her. Every so often, she would order a group to use the lift spell and clear away the ever-accumulating pile. Imagine if a lightstrike were to hit the cliffs! More than just a crumble would fall. The glen was snuggled within the weathered stone of a craggy east-facing cliff that shielded them from the harsh winter storms, a short distance from the Dunakey River.

Manichia, your orders please.

She looked up into Farrell’s orange eyes, marveling how the tall willow-like Feyree seemed strangely serene, as if drawing from some inner core of confidence. How I envy him, she thought, glancing at his amulet, an indigo amethyst nestled in a golden braid, crested by Lunasa’s glowing orb to denote his high rank. Lunasa. He had obviously abandoned them. Why else would he have permitted the fire daemiani passage from their daemension? And the Mother – had she abandoned them as well? What did Tizon really want? Only the unfurling of days would provide answers. Can you put some of them in the Healer Guildhall?

No.

And why not? Irked by his brusqueness, she retorted, You have empty chambers, what with those that defied your orders and fled with Chief Tain Symnon. Such as Andrus, Siddiqui and Danai.

Manichia, let us understand one another. His sonorous voice was intense, yet calm. As Guild Master, my first concern is always the well-being of our folk. It was not my choice to permit the daemiani into Lampion, as well you know. But many will suffer under their dominion. My duty is to heal and help, and no place can I better fulfill my duties than my guildhall. Uncharacteristic fierceness rang through his next words. "But I will not suffer the invaders’ depredations in my hall! And you can not force me to do so. Within their guildhalls, the Guild Master is the Chief Tain! Seeing her shoulders slump, he relented. But I will support you in all other ways, for it comes to my mind that we will have great need of each other in these dark days, and I would not have discord stand between us."

A tiny smile oozed free as Manichia extended her hand, a swell of thankfulness threatening to wrench tears from her aching heart as his calloused palm engulfed hers. So be it. Will you instead accept some of our folk into Healer Hall?

With a rueful grin, he chuckled. I should have seen that one coming. Yes I will, right gladly. His face dimmed. Do not let your dread of these daemiani overrule your good sense. The damage is done. Let us prevent even more. We will see. We will learn. Discover their strengths, delve their weaknesses. Lunasa willing, we will ascertain how to restore Lampion to Feyree. Now, let us prepare. My heart tells me that they will arrive all too soon.

* * *

What do you think the Battle Scrolls will reveal? Too large for her slate-blue face, Sharokina’s leaf green eyes seemed to hang like wraith wisps in the torchlights’ wavering glow. She and Toron cocked their heads at the hustle of feet and voices passing the Guardian Chamber as Skalds and Orpheii joined the other Feyree of Glyffshado Glen in preparing for departure as soon as the thundersnow released them.

That we must relearn the ugliness of war and all its miseries. Toron scowled at the thick pile of faded scrolls heaped before him on the table, several partially unrolled and weighted down by intricate copper coils. He must scour each one, glean anything that might enable him to defeat Tizon at his own game. Not that it would be easy. Even as they had fled birdback from Revelstoke, it had been obvious the Firelord marched at the head of hundreds as he approached the High Seat of Feyree. But where else had he struck? Unconsciously he shoved jade fingers through thick black hair, feeling the weight of the purple cloak sitting heavy upon his shoulders. With Lord Andamion’s murder, he was now effectively Lord of Feyree as well as Chief Warlord. In what manner could he guide his folk to victory?

Watching him, Joson wished mightily that there was something useful he could do. Chosen by Toron to serve as herald, he now accompanied him everywhere. He could guess at what the Warlord must be thinking – that their situation was precarious. Tizon had planned well, attacking with who knew how many battle-trained troops. Remembering where he was, he just stopped himself from spitting. Tvashtar Tizon. Firelord of Nonetre. Only Nonetre was dying, and anyone with half a brain could guess Tizon lusted for all that Lampion still had and Nonetre had lost. His thoughts swarmed to Atelai, Lady of Feyree. She should now be sequestered at Firebaugh Vale with Seer Guild Master Anokyali. He could still see her desolate face as she was settled among the feathers of the Hyrald, lord of all birds. So deep was her shock at her lord’s murder that she could only stare about in dull confusion. Another of Tizon’s achievements! Add to that the murder of the Dolmen, Feyree’s High Loremaster. Tizon was a traitor to everything Feyree – he and that toad, Eshel. How long would it take for them to destroy Lampion? Not if I can do anything to stop it. Beneath a shock of black curls, Joson’s ivory face, already several winters older than it had been yesterday, grew grim. I will kill him. Both of them, if that’s what it takes. His attention snapped back as Guardian Penryn hurried in.

Warlord, the storm is in full blow. The good – and bad – of it is that none can journey in such weather. Because it descends from the Torwilds, it will depart from Glyffshado ere it leaves Revelstoke. In that brief time, we must abandon this glen with all speed. Shall we head to Nur Nefaste, our glen’s safe haven?

No. Toron’s eyes blazed like sun-stroked sapphires. The traitor Kalys hails from here. He knows its whereabouts. It would become a death trap were we to retreat there. We need to seek unknown refuges.

Warlord, I have an idea. Joson tensed at their stares. Srath Orach. I don’t think it’s commonly known among our folk. The birds know the valley and can carry us there. My dwarf friend Tlarg described it as cliff-sheltered. It’s their garden. Maybe there’s food there as well.

The Vale of the Sun. A safe haven indeed. Toron smiled approvingly at the tall lad, and Joson flushed. I know the place. Penryn, advise the Skald and Orpheii Guild Masters – but instruct them to speak to no one else. Who knows what other traitors may creep among us clad in false smiles?

* * *

The cold of the hidden passage could not rival the cold within his heart. What a fool he’d been to stay behind, ignoring Toron’s orders to abandon the stronghold! Damon watched as the fire daemiani eagerly hurried past him down the Coera, the spiraling stepway of Revelstoke’s great tower that plunged down and down into the hollow hill. Not that they could see him. The veil spellcast by the Guardians rendered the secret passage’s entries invisible, here and in the watchtower where it ended.

A deep snarl of thunder overhead vibrated the stones around him. Why did I stay, he puzzled, huddling inside the thick white cloak Lady Atelai had gifted him when he came to train under her and Mentor Quenton. A lot of good it does me being a Pusans right now. So what if I have some great power for magic? I don’t have enough skill to do much with it yet. He gritted his teeth at the sudden roar of voices, the ecstatic chant of All hail, all hail Tvashtar Tizon! that echoed up the stepway from Crown Hall. Tizon must have claimed the Lord of Feyree’s throne. But it had taken Kalys to make that happen! Had the Feyree traitor not deliberately performed flawed fire magic in the Lady’s council chamber, Tizon could never have broken through and murdered the Lord and Dolmen. Damon’s eyes blazed like copper glowflies – he had vowed to seek and destroy Kalys. And he would fulfill it.

Another roar of approval forced his thoughts back to his predicament. How to get out of here? He mulled the magics Quenton had already taught him. Perhaps the Invisibility Spell? True, it would not render him invulnerable, and he had no desire to roam the passageways while blade-wielding daemiani were still charging about. Bad idea that. Although it was quiet now – maybe he could sneak out?

Wrists crossed overhead, he softly invoked the spell, felt the odd tremor along his limbs that marked his disappearance. Cautiously he approached the archway’s misty veil, pausing to listen for any footsteps. Slipping through, he hastened up the timeworn steps. Dismay crumpled his face as he peered out into the maidan. The falling snow was piled higher than his chest! He recoiled at a blue lightstrike’s angry sizzle as it illuminated the north watchtower. Nobody’s journeying in this! I’m stuck here. Now what?

Thinking creative oaths as a wind gust buffeted him with a face full of icy crystals, he started back down, heard the ruckus of celebratory shouts. Rage boiled over. Vaulting down the steps, he had to snatch at Crown Hall’s entry portal to slow down. Creeping along the passage, nose wrinkling at the strange sour reek that reminded him of rain-soaked charred wood, he eased up to the entry arch and peered in.

The scene would forever be scorched upon his memory.

Like a weird mockery of the fey folk, floating warriors, flames blazing bright in every imaginable hue, were cavorting near the hall’s high-arched roof, while hundreds of others capered about in mock duels on the smooth-polished floor that reflected their flames. But what drew his gaze was his erstwhile friend. Tvashtar Tizon, ornate red gold helm crowned with a gold circlet of floating scarlet flames, audaciously lolling on the Lord of Feyree’s throne upon the high dais. A look of uncomfortable pride smeared his features, dark-embered eyes scanning the throng as he addressed an orange-caped daemon at his side. The daemon nodded, then rapped blade on shield for silence. Unwillingly, the warriors settled, jostling and shoving each other like eager younglings impatient to start the day’s adventures.

Ebony cape draped across the copper throne like a swath of night, the Tvashtar rose, giving a well-oiled smile. My brave warriors of Nonetre. We have triumphed! But this is only the beginning. Morrowmorn, once the storm is past, we march to Glyffshado Glen. As we encountered no resistance here, their troops have amassed elsewhere. Wherever we find them, we shall easily overcome them. He paused for the approving shouts to dissipate. But as we are confined this eve to Revelstoke, let us enjoy its bounty and set things to rights. For this will be my new stronghold. Tariq Orosh, bestow upon them our orders. With a self-satisfied smile, he remained standing as the sunset orange daemon obeyed.

Lad, you must control your emotions. They are your greatest strength – and your greatest weakness. Even as he clenched his fists, wanting to pummel the smug smile off Tizon’s face, Damon could hear Quenton’s stern voice droning in his head. Control, control...but he had to vent his anger...some way...what about...?

Orosh’s gritty voice scraped the air as he issued commands. ...As you descend, the lead group will peel off into each passage and see – A collective gasp interrupted him. He and Tizon spun about.

Wobbling, the throne seemed to be struggling with itself. The dulled emerald twined in its crest effervesced a blinding green. The gnarled oak branches and leaves that shaped the throne seemed to writhe as it teetered, then toppled over to bump down the steps, forcing Tizon to lurch aside. Colliding with Orosh, they both tumbled into an ignominious heap on the floor. A nervous moan swept the hall, along with mutters of ‘ill omen.’ Flustered, Tizon and Orosh untangled themselves. To your duties! Orosh snapped at the Mos-Tariqs, his seconds in command. They gave the Ilan salute, and led the warriors towards the passage.

Damon grinned. Danai had been right; there were many ways to apply a spellcast, although he doubted the rustle spell had ever been used for such a purpose! Maybe being a Pusans does have its advantages after all. But I’d better hide or get run over! Hurrying several steps down the passage, he dodged into a dark alcove where visitors’ cloaks were hung, smirking at the worried murmurs of the now-subdued crowd marching past. Then he snuck back into Crown Hall. He sensed he was getting tired; he had never attempted to maintain magic for so long. It was draining his energy, even as the Mentors had cautioned would happen when the sprytes were progressing through the Rites of Krisalys. Yet if he could glean anything useful...

My lord, Orosh grunted as he and Tizon struggled to haul the heavy throne back up the steps, we should have commanded a few warriors to do this. It is not seemly you lower yourself to such a task.

And permit them to dwell on the fact that something came to life and fell of its own accord? Tizon cursed as his shin banged into the armrest. They’re already jittery with the unfamiliar surroundings. Fear breeds unrest. I will not permit any opportunity for such feelings to take root! Do not forget there are rebellionists in Nonetre who support neither this invasion nor my rule. Fools! They would prefer to perish than risk change. I will force them to acknowledge that I am indeed he whom the Herald prophesied. There!

Panting, they stood back to make sure the throne was properly positioned beside the silver throne. Damon had to suppress an urge to topple it again, afraid it would cost him the energy to remain invisible. But he could not resist a spellcast to make the emerald dazzle brightly, startling Orosh and eliciting a scowl from Tizon. He gazed intently around the hall.

My lord, what are your orders for tomorrow?

As you are my most trusted tariq, I place you in command of Revelstoke until I return victorious. It is only right that I, as Firelord, lead my warriors to battle until all Feyree has acquiesced to my rule. And then will commence a glorious new age where I will free my former folk from ancient traditions’ shackles and introduce the many marvelous skills that Nonetre has developed. Eager anticipation illuminated his face, hands gesturing to emphasize his words. Imagine all we can accomplish, Orosh! Not only Feyree, but dwarves and Ael – and beyond the northlands, there are even more folk with whom we can open trade. No longer constrained by the limitations of the Guilds, acquiring new ways to produce more and support this trade, being able to obtain things they may have never seen before...so much potential! It boggles the mind!

A wisp of impatience flickered across Orosh’s face. Well and good my lord. But Lampion is not yet firm within your grasp. Your orders?

Thundersnow is usually of short duration. We march after mornmeal for Glyffshado. We should reach it after mid-day. The Skald and Orpheii Guilds are there, and we need to handle them gently so that they come to support our cause.

And if they won’t?

Tizon shrugged. Nonetre always has a need for new thralls. It is a Skald saying that we are all responsible for our decisions of action and of choice. Let them choose.

And after that?

With fresh snow on the ground, there will likely be a delay on my receiving reports on the invasion’s outcome at the other glens. When I return, we will decide our next steps. Come. Descending the dais, Tizon glanced at the entry. Gasped. A bronze wraith?

Damon blinked as a wave of dizziness darkened his sight, glimpsed hand and arm appearing. Blurry. But visible. He felt the magic guttering out, struggled to restore it. His eyes met Tizon’s.

Damon! What in the Mother’s name are you doing here? Damon vanished. No, wait! Please!

Dragging his hand waist high along the wall as he fled down the passage, Damon scrabbled to find the tiny knob that only the Lady and Lord’s most trusted circle knew about. There! He pushed, felt the door pivot inwards, stepped in and softly swung it closed, even as Tizon’s booted feet thudded past. Let them search! He could hide safely here until dawnshine, then make his way to Glyffshado to warn them. He still had the silver horn that could summon the Hyrald, lord of all birds, who had been a cherished companion of Lord Andamion and Lady Atelai. In the chaos of Revelstoke’s evacuation, he had never had the chance to give it to Toron. The great silver falcon could bring him to the glen while Tizon’s warriors plodded along. The tiny chamber was damp, and he wished he had enough energy left to invoke the warming spell. Instead, he settled for curling up inside his cloak and was soon wonderfully warm. His stomach gurgled. Toads, but I’m hungry! Now I sound like Joson. I wish he were here. Or Danai. Somebody. Exhausted, he leaned back against the wall. I must sleep. Regather my energies. I’ll need them for my escape.

* * * * *

Chapter II

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A tormented shriek pierced the stronghold’s walls, briefly muting the menacing rasp of scouring sands. The shimmerstone panes rattled under the onslaught and Pach Nimlir stifled a gulp at the image of one shattering. Like a waterfall of red grit, the hungry sands would flood in and consume Eagaloch, even as it was devouring Nonetre.

The north wall, my lord! came a frantic shout. Fear flared the daemon’s flames as he sprinted across the Great Hall through the crowd and up the dais. Cracks form and it leans inwards. The sands shove too heavily against it!

Cursing inwardly, Pach Nimlir maintained calm, determined to reassure his worried folk as flickering eyes turned towards him. Summon every thrall! Order them to bring more braces. Get everyone else out in case it slumps. Move! Rising from his seat, he felt a restraining hand clasp his arm.

My lord, let the thralls and taskmasters cope with it.

Dearest Aralorosa, as Pach my place is to protect our folk. He gazed compassionately into her dread-shadowed scarlet-embered eyes. As Pacha, you know I must go. He leapt off the dais and strode purposefully from the hall. Then he was running through the passages, trailing thralls and daemiani behind him. Ahead he could hear the distant groan of stressed stone struggling to resist the relentless piling pressure of insistent sands. If only they could go outside to dig it away – but nothing could survive a sandstorm! Their only chance was to brace the walls and hope they could outlast the wind.

Dodging through fleeing younglings and ladies, he heard an uproar from behind. Make way! Make way! Dwarf and Ael thralls jogged past him, laden with brace sections. A good thing the thralls were some five times taller than a fire daemon, he thought. Not only were they strong, but if needed, he would use them as braces as well. At the north passage entry arch, he skidded to a halt. It was far worse then he’d envisioned.

Even as he stared, a segment of wall cracked, fissures splitting up from its base like rapidly spreading flame. The polished roof groaned, a scattering of fractures spitting stone shards down upon the thralls as they wrestled with the heavy metal braces. Line them up! Secure them! Taskmasters were darting among the thralls, screaming commands. No need to use cudgels or whips; fear was the most brutal of goads. Rows of braces were swiftly being arranged in lines of three, spanning the passage’s width.

Heave! Nimlir stepped towards the nearest six thralls as they hefted the three segments above him, setting them between the walls. Inhaling deeply, his flames crackled as he enlarged until he was taller than they. Hold them in position! Wrapping indigo-flamed hands around each juncture, he fused them together with a heat surge so intense, his hands flared blindingly white. Then he checked that the brace was aligned with the opposing walls, glanced beyond at the others being set into place. Would it be enough?

Listen! Fear roughened the dwarf’s voice. The wind’s maddened shriek was dissipating. A flash of sickly orange light glinted through the south-facing panes overlooking the central courtyard, the maishan.

Horror wrenched Nimlir’s heart. A whirlstorm! The worst kind of sandstorm, with a brief respite before the rampaging winds would resume and savage Eagaloch with even greater fury. If the walls had barely held under the first onslaught, what chance they would survive the next? Should we abandon? No! I will not submit to any storm. More braces, he roared. We have but a short while.

Even as he spoke, he heard a distant growl and knew it was already too late. He saw the daemiani flames dim, the thralls blanch, and he felt a surge of thankful pride that not a one abandoned their position, their grim faces determined as all heard the snarl of approaching sand.

Attacking, the wind tore across the overhead ramparts with a wild screech of mocking laughter, echoed by pain-filled shrieks as an unbraced portion of the wall slouched, sagged. The roof buckled, spewing chunks of stone. NO! Nimlir lunged forward, erupting into blazing enormity until his shoulders pressed against the roof, ignoring the agonized screams as his wild flames engulfed the closest thralls.

Shuddering, the roof seemed to hold. Then, as if with a groan of relief, it collapsed, thundering down, burying everyone in a cloud of red dust, stone, and gleaming shimmerpane fragments. For a heartbeat, Nimlir stood, a lone flaming pillar among the ruins, staring in shocked disbelief at the rubble. He was exposed to the ferocious winds that scoured his flames, blowing him brighter and brighter until he was a shrieking indigo inferno, and then was swift-shredded into silent embers to be sucked away into ashy oblivion.

* * *

Eshel stared unseeingly at Keothach’s heaving waves of liquid fire. The War Chamber at the top of the Pirash, Naloch’s twin-spired tower, was lapped in shifting light and shadows as a huge gout spewed higher than the black stone stronghold, then slumped down in ochre and crimson contortions. The Cauldron of Smokes, he mused. The fire lake was well named. How desperately he craved to know the outcome of Tizon’s invasion! But spellcasting a breach to Revelstoke would only antagonize the Tvashtar. Besides, the Firelord must prove himself, lest too many suspect the extent of Eshel’s influence. Four more days of waiting.

Absently he shifted his weight to his good leg and rubbed his aching crooked shoulder. I must focus my energy on preparing for the Ach-steach, our great journey to Lampion. I doubt that my original prediction of three more winters is accurate. At best two, before the rains give out completely. Already rainfall has been sparse this winter; the great gardens of Rualach and Chardach report dwindling water flows. Only Lalach yet enjoys sufficient water. As it has for hundreds of winters.

He twitched at the gritty scratch of breeze-driven sand across the shimmerpanes. Yesterday’s sandstorm, among the worst in his long memory, had fortunately been of short duration. Sand, dust, stone. All that remained of a realm that had once been forested – or so the tales told. But the woods had already been lean six hundred winters past. He could recall when the last tree was consumed by forge fires. Fortunate had they been to discover firestone. Since then, dwarf thralls had labored in the ever-deepening mines of Amdras, supplying Nonetre’s needs. But of what use firestone if there was no food to eat, no water to drink?

A polite tap sounded on the door. At his shout, it opened to reveal Saia. Lord Herald? Her scarlet skin glowed softly in the entry’s gloom, her tilted smoke-gray eyes assessing him with a mix of curiosity and caution, her gold wings drooped behind a snug-fitting opal sheath. It made her lush figure seem more seductive, her elaborately-tressed fiery gold hair more luminous. Have you heard aught from Tizon? My lord?

He was staring through her, memories of the exquisite Feyree Kilari rekindled by Saia’s coloring. Kilari. Chief Gatherer for Darlding Glen. She had been comfortable with him as he escorted her about Lalach. He would seek her out once settled in Lampion. Why should he not finally have a consort? Did Tizon not have Saia? Her frayed query dragged him back. No! The Tvashtar is his own master. What brings you here?

"The Cromosh gather in the council chamber. Urgent messages have come from Eagaloch and Rualach. Your presence is requested by Cromoshor Rakas."

He limped past her, descending the spiraling stepway. The darkness seemed thick after the fire lake’s glare, and he brightened his ashen flames so he could see better. Saia, whose half-Feyree, half-daemon origin had not granted her true body flames, stumbled slightly behind him. Cursing silently, she glared at his short almost stick-like figure, silver flamed-head seeming too large for his body. He may be the Herald, second only to Tizon, she thought, but when I am Tvashtaras, he shall not be permitted to treat me so.

Soon they were in Naloch’s main passageway, ignoring thralls that flattened themselves respectfully against the walls as they passed. The blue-flamed guards saluted, blades up, before thrusting open the Council Chamber’s bronze doors. Twelve daemiani seethed about a scarlet stone table encircled by matching seats, high-polished black walls reflecting their many-hued flames. A sideboard held untouched food and drink. Torch-urns guttered and smoked, casting a wavering light. The Cromosh, Nonetre’s High Council.

Ah, finally you are come, Lord Eshel. Draish inclined his head, purple flames flickering, then waited until all Cromoshor were seated. Saia took her place away from the table, to Eshel’s right, beside the Tvashtar’s empty high-backed seat. Pacha Aralorosa sent word that Pach Nimlir is dead, consumed while attempting to protect Eagaloch’s north wing from storm collapse. That her northerly dwellings were inundated and those foolish enough to ignore the Pach’s earlier summons to shelter now lie beneath the advancing sands. Already they are building a single protective wall, lest the next storm devour the stronghold. She begs the loan of some of Naloch’s thralls, for many died in the disaster.

Smothering shock, Eshel nodded. Send all we can spare. And send warning to the other strongholds that they must fortify their sandstorm-side walls. Rubbing his palms, he sent a shower of sparks guttering onto the table. Inconceivable to think that our most ancient high seat could ever succumb to the sands!

The Drying grows ever more fierce. Draish’s blunt accusation gave voice to the flickers of doubt apparent on every face. The sand waves are sweeping down upon Nonetre, far sooner than you predicted!

Eshel debated a magic that would leave Draish squirming on the floor in agony. Although it would be enjoyable, he could imagine the others’ outrage, so he satisfied himself with a derisive sneer. Well you know that scrying the weather winters ahead is at best an inexact magic. With Lampion in our grasp, does it matter? Soon we will depart this realm and once again command food, water, and wealth.

Except that many still reject abandoning Nonetre. Rakas’ finger trailed a slender amber arc of flame as he waggled it. Even as there are those that still refuse to accept a Feyree as Firelord.

Still? Huros snorted. I thought Eshel had snuffed them all out.

Little concern have I for either faction. Eshel shrugged, ignoring the mutters. Fifteen hundred winters past, our folk came through Sandstorm Pass, led by Tvashtar Tizon in search of a new realm rich with food and water. As we did then, so we do now. Lampion is our future. Nonetre is now our death.

And if they will not come?

Then they will die, Huros. Those who fail to embrace the future will suffocate beneath the past. Always has it been so; always will it be so. The finality of his tone brooked no further debate.

Nebish nodded. Yet it seems as if Nonetre pushes us out faster than we wish to leave. It is as Draish said; the storms grow ever more violent. While there may yet remain even two winters of rain, what if the sands have no such patience?

Much as he did not appreciate being pressured, Eshel accepted that Nebish was right. For a moment he felt the burden of his hundreds of winters, wished he could delegate the Herald’s mantle to another Talushim. But as Nonetre’s highest loremaster, that was a luxury he must reserve for when they were established in Lampion. Then we must move more swiftly. Soon the Tvashtar will report his success. But do not forget it is also winter there. We can in no way move over two thousand daemiani when there is not sufficient food or shelter prepared. And Lampion’s winters are host to rain, wind, snow... He let the implication dangle ominously. Accept that Lampion is being readied and while the Tvashtar will make all effort to hasten things, at best it will be late spring before the realm has begun to dry.

"Four terceras? Agitated, Rakas smacked a palm on the table, spattering sparks. Are you saying we just sit and smother?"

Why not shift those most at risk to the great gardens? Saia’s sleek voice soothed the grumbling. They stared at her. Bring them to the gardens instead of carrying food and water to the strongholds. The mountains protect the hidden gardens against sandstorms. Why can they not guard us as well, serve as refuge? With extra taskmasters and thralls to provide the labor necessary to perform any duty required. Why not? She smiled, but her eyes were hard. Dims! Tizon was right; they can not see the fire for the smoke.

Lady Saia, once again you prove why you are a member of this council. Rakas oozed respect.

It is well thought, Eshel said with a nod, although I counsel it be done in steps, lest we cause panic. The strongholds of Eagaloch and Nasmothas are most at risk; they bear the brunt of the storms. Instruct Pacha Aralorosa and Pach Maersk to shift their folk to Rualach and Lalach.

Abandon our strongholds? Draish was aghast.

And if they won’t? Imtril scowled.

Then they belong to the sandstorms. Saia released a slit of a smile. By their own choice.

Make it so. Eshel glanced around the table. Is there aught else?

And what of Naloch?

What of it? He felt his temper flare at Draish’s bluster.

It too is at risk from storms. Dozens of thralls are this very moment digging out the northwest wall, feeding the sands to the fire lake. Were not the walls built so thick as to be impervious to Keothach’s heat, we too would be at greater risk. Do you also desire we prepare to abandon Naloch?

Stung to sudden wrath, Eshel smacked both hands on the tabletop as he rose, eyes ablaze, harsh voice rasping the air. Abandon Naloch? High Seat of Nonetre? I think not! Only when all have departed this realm shall Naloch be left empty. Such is my command! Do not speak of it again!

* * *

Abandon Eagaloch? Has the Herald taken leave of his senses? Aghast, Pacha Aralorosa looked up from the message scroll, eyes bleary with fatigue. Dark green flames of hair writhed about her lovely ivory face, flickering over the copper seat that her dear lord had once called his own. It gave her comfort to think of him there, administering the proud ancient stronghold. All she had now to mourn over were her memories; not even his cinders remained. Disgust welled through her. We suffer too much change, too fast. First a Feyree for Firelord, then the mandate to depart our realm, and