In the Shadow of The Wolf

By Jose Cooper

The Tapestry guards the portals into the Infinity but its seals are fracturing. A warrior is stitched to hold back the tide of evil while the threads are repaired but is he the hero his world needs?

• Language: English
• Publisher: 2QT Limited (Publishing)
• Release date: Sep 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781914083280

Book preview

PROLOGUE

In the eternal darkness of the Infinity Between Worlds there are dangers and terrors that seek to enter the worlds of men. They, who men call gods, created the Tapestry to defend against such incursions. They made her immortal, and her weapons are many. To be chosen is both blessing and curse.

ASSASSIN

CHAPTER ONE

Arlyn froze as the scrape of metal on stone drifted down to him. Uncertainty flickered briefly in his thoughts but he dismissed it. Now was not the time for any doubts about the nature of this contract. He was committed.

Uncomfortable with the conditions, he gazed up. There was ice forming on the wet stone, and the wind whipped relentlessly around the tower that housed the royal apartments. He took a deep breath, blinked away the last of his reservations and started to scale the blocks of the sea-facing wall.

He moved confidently at first, the worn and pockmarked stone allowing him many secure handholds. But, as the surface grew slicker, tension made his shoulders ache and he could feel cramp waiting to attack his fingers. Despite the icy temperature of this midwinter night the sweat trickled warmly down his face, stinging his skin and blurring his vision. He pressed his right cheek against the stone and let its unyielding cold remove some of the heat in his face.

The sound of a man’s hacking cough above held him motionless, and Arlyn hugged the wall even tighter. He was still in the shadows, but knew that his black clothes would soon cease to be of any use as camouflage as he climbed higher.

He relaxed his right hand and flexed his fingers, forcing the feeling back into them before continuing the ascent. He had chosen a moonless night but knew from his previous reconnoitre that torches were lit every ten paces along the battlements to throw light in all directions.

Knowing that none had ever breached this castle’s defences by scaling its seaward wall, he had taken this route to avoid the patrols that guarded the entrances. Most of the sentries would be stationed at the landward gates. He finger-searched the next block of weathered granite until he found a set of natural handholds, which felt sound under his probing, and pushed himself further along.

And yet again doubts brushed against him, like a whispered warning. It was not that he had no head for heights, as in his profession as a paid killer it was an advantage to be afraid of nothing but failure. It was more that by accepting the contract his life had forever changed.

He was reminded suddenly of his precarious position as the ancient mortar crumbled and he was left hanging by one hand. His soft leather boots scrabbled for purchase and he felt a stab of alarm as he heard again the scrape of metal and the voices of the two watch guards hissing in vulgar Eliosi.

‘Bats.’

Arlyn could feel the gaze of the guards trying to pierce the darkness beneath their viewpoint.

‘Bats with boots on,’ a second voice said sharply.

‘Go and investigate if it’ll make you happy, but I’m going back to the fire.’

Trying to ignore the blood running down his hand from torn fingers, Arlyn shrank against the stone and waited until he heard an impatient grunt as the soldiers’ iron-studded boots retreated back into the warmth of the small guard tower. He shifted the coil of rope slung across his body and then, sensing it was safe to move again, began to pull himself upwards.

The erosion at the top was not as pronounced as where the sea moved constantly against the castle’s foundations, but there were plenty of crevices where the granite had been worn away by years of violent storms. Although it seemed forever it was not long before he was faced with the first set of crenellations, and he hauled himself over and onto the flagged walkway.

The increasing wind pushed at him and he had to battle against its strength before rolling into a shadow between the reach of two torches, where he allowed himself a few moments to check he had not been heard. He scanned the area illuminated by torchlight before creeping cautiously towards the oldest of the watchtowers that looked out to sea.

The old keep had been built around this ancient tower, and later the castle itself had been grafted on. There was still the small set of iron bars cemented into the cracks between the blocks that created a simple ladder to the top of the tower and the lookout platform mounted on its flat roof. His memory had not failed him there.

Through a gap in the leather curtain covering the entrance into the tower he could see the glow of a small fire in the iron brazier and the occasional spark from damp wood. The two guards would pay dearly for their laxity, but he did not pity them. They were invaders here in Anvorgh.

He looped one end of his rope through two of the bars, secured it with a series of knots he could trust and then carefully hid the coil behind some old masonry. Although he had once known the castle as well as a frequent yet unwelcome visitor may, he had never been invited into the royal apartments. He knew nothing of their layout and, fearing it would raise suspicion, had not dared to ask too many searching questions in the town. He did, however, know that all the exits on the ground floor would be secured against any possible threat from rebels and from those seeking revenge against the Eliosi invaders.

There were two gates into the castle. One, small and private, led to a stairway cut into the cliff and wound down to the cove where his rowing boat was hidden. The other was the main gate that led into Lehr’s outer city. Both gates were locked during the hours of darkness, and although open in the daytime they were always heavily guarded.

If there were others he was not aware of them, and neither were those he had bought information from. Secret passageways and concealed entrances in such places were exactly that — secret — and their designers were expected to take the knowledge of their existence with them to their graves.

The two Eliosi guards came out to complete another quick and cursory sweep along the battlements, but Arlyn was hidden out of sight. As he waited he thought again of the diagram that his client had given him. He had studied it obsessively for days, trying to remember rooms and corridors that had once been familiar, but the drawing had lacked much fine detail as well as any more recent arrangements.

Satisfied that the watchmen had settled back in front of their fire, he carefully eased himself out of the shadows. The snow-laden wind howled and dragged at him as he inched his way towards the door that led down to the rooms of his intended victim. The ancient handle, resisting the pressure, froze his fingers. But he forced the turn until it yielded reluctantly, and then he was through and closing the door gently behind him.

He removed the outer jerkin that had kept the worst of the cold from his body and rolled it up before pushing it into a large crack above the worn lintel. While listening for any sound of an alarm or unexpected visitor to the tower, he moved warily down the circular stairway to the top landing where a dimly lit short passageway led to what had once been a map room but was rumoured these days to hide an uncomfortable truth from the other inhabitants of the castle.

He waited before stealthily making his way to the next landing. The stairway continued down to the ground floor and the main hall of the keep, but he was not interested in that route. On this landing there was a better-illuminated corridor that branched off in two directions: one to a suite of private apartments, the other to a set of rooms used by scribes and councillors.

There was a narrow stairway leading into the king’s private audience hall where the nobility could come and petition for justice. The common people were rarely granted access to their lords and king. Two guards on the stairwell were despatched with very little fuss, and he walked quickly along the landing to the door of the royal apartment.

Memories of his past life in this city bubbled up, refusing to be ignored, and he had to suppress the hostility that came from the time when Razil had officially cast him out only days after the funeral of his mother. His response to Razil’s order to leave had been insolent, and in that moment he knew that if he had asked for justice it would have been swift and fatal.

Arlyn pushed the old resentment away and continued on silent feet along the corridor, noting the fine tapestries and wall hangings that hid the rough stone of this once great keep of the Anvorghin kings. Some of the scenes he recognised from his childhood – in particular the snow-covered forests and mountains of his birthplace, Dhûnrig, far to the north. These embroidered works had been gifts from his family to their Anvorghin kinsmen in better times.

The circular corridor came abruptly to an end and the door loomed before him. On this level of the tower it was said that the royal suite commanded a sweeping, magnificent view of the bay and far out onto the sea. The other three chambers were occupied by concubines. The mother of his only son and heir had long since departed to the halls of the Eliosi royal dead — reluctantly, some said, but only out of the king’s earshot.

Arlyn felt something odd brushing a cold finger along the back of his neck, and checked his hand as he reached for the handle. He shook off the ghostly caress and brought his thoughts back to the task before him.

He turned the handle, and stepped into a darkness only slightly lifted by the glow from the dying embers of a fire. He blinked, letting his vision adjust as he gently let the lock slip back into place, and turned the key. As his hand fell to the dagger’s hilt he stepped softly to the great bed. Then slowly, and with a steady hand, he pulled back the curtains.

***

Sennar awoke from his recurring nightmare and sat up, reaching for the water that awaited his nightly restlessness. He took a sip and placed the goblet back on the small table at the bedside, still staring at the fat candle spiked on the saucer. He drew a hand across his sweat-damp brow, knowing sleep had fled. Resigned to spending the rest of the night awake, he sighed.

He threw back the thick woollen blankets and swung his legs over the side of the bed, slipping his feet into the fur-lined velvet slippers that the nobility of Anvorgh wore in their cold, draughty castles.

Then he picked up the goblet and made himself comfortable in one of the high-backed cushioned chairs at the side of the great hearth. He shivered as a gust of the latest Anvorghin gale rattled the ill-fitting shutters of his room and blew down the chimney to scatter the flames of a fire that did nothing to warm the grey, bleak granite of this city.

His own capital, Issilin, was half a moon’s cycle away, across a sea become sluggish with ice floes drifting southwards along the coast of this cursed land. His eyes narrowed. Cursed it may be, but it was also rich and ripe for conquest.

The Anvorghin, hobbled as they were by a history of greatness that could not withstand the iron swords of his invincible army, had been apathetic to the might and greed of the Eliosi. And now they bent their proud necks to him and his generals. They were slaves and chattels, all of them.

Sennar gripped the velvet cushioning on the chair’s arms as his thoughts turned to the events of the last three days. His intelligence network was good – too good to ignore the information from one of his most reliable sources within the city … that an assassin had been hired to kill him.

He had many enemies, of course – here and at home, as well as in lands that viewed with dismay his plans for expansion and might plot to remove him as a threat. He knew that there were those back in Issilin, not understanding his vision for an empire, who schemed to rule in his place.

The conquest of Anvorgh had had many supporters. But equally there had been those who feared a conflict with the Faleydrin, ancient allies of the Anvorghin. The naysayers spoke openly of their doubts and reservations. Sennar had spent more than one fortune to allay the fears of some, but others refused to be pacified. Greed had not turned them. They would need stronger reasons for a war so far from home.

He sipped at the icy water in the golden vessel, comfortable that he was safe, but there had been the message that the assassin was from one of the chapters of the Burahdin Guild: Hassassin-trained to be killers from childhood, they were merciless and effective.

Sennar shivered. Their reputation was beyond question. That information had sent his spies into the streets of Lehr to gather what intelligence they could. But little had been learnt, only that a man — a foreigner — had been paying discreetly for facts about the castle.

Burahd did not normally involve itself in the affairs of other states and its ruling prince had never overtly exhibited aggression towards Elios, but there was no comfort in that assumption. Also, many retired Hassassin became paid killers, and Sennar had enough enemies who could boast the wealth to finance an assassination attempt such as this.

A knock on the door interrupted his contemplation and Sirrilon, captain of his elite bodyguard entered, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

Sennar snapped a curt, ‘Well?’

‘We have him, sire.’

Sennar’s lips curled back in a primal snarl of outrage. So the message had been accurate. Someone had tried to kill him.

As Sennar pushed himself out of the chair he knocked over the goblet of water. He glanced at the dark stain as it ran off a thick-piled rug onto the stone and shivered with a sudden chill. The spreading liquid looked like spilt blood on the exposed grey granite.

***

It took only a few seconds for Arlyn’s eyes to adjust to the gloom of the canopied bed, but he could make out the mound of a body under the gold cloth coverlet. He had the dagger in his hand and raised it high to administer the blow … then hesitated. His thoughts ran quickly through the journey from the battlements to this room. Something was wrong.

His usual marks were men whose enemies sought to end their lives for their own gain, but this contract was very different. He had considered it longer than usual before accepting. He let his thoughts take him back along the route to this room and berated himself silently. There had been only two guards on the stairwell and no servants within calling distance… It was highly unlikely that the Eliosi king was in this chamber.

The figure under the covers had become aware of him and was beginning to react, but Arlyn knew it would not be Sennar. He flipped the dagger for the killing stroke, but the bodyguard who had taken Sennar’s place in the bed was expecting it. Arlyn threw himself at the man, but the guard managed to evade the blow. He tumbled to the floor, knocking over a small table and sending its contents crashing.

The guard scrambled off the bed, but his foot had caught in one of the covers and he could not avoid the plunging blade. Arlyn leant away from the blood spray and rolled off the bed, then resheathed the dagger absent-mindedly before twisting towards the windows. He grabbed a stool and smashed it against first one window, then another.

A quick glance told him there was no safe way to descend from there and he could hear running feet echoing along the corridor blocking that route. He sprinted back to the bed to snatch the dead soldier’s sword from his lax fingers. He would kill some of them before they took him.

He ignored the hammering against the door and did not allow it to unnerve him. The lock would hold for a little longer. He positioned himself on the other side of the bed and, to be ready, measured his breathing. The hinges yielded at last to the pounding and the door crashed against the stone floor.

A dozen torches blazed in the semi-darkness, blinding him. He blinked rapidly and hefted the sword in his hand. He could see five bodies crowding the doorway, but there would be more in the corridor. There was a flash of inevitability, but he dismissed it.

With all his thoughts coalescing on the blades facing him, he steadied himself. He knew he had one advantage: their orders would be to take him alive, and their lives would be forfeit to the king’s need to interrogate him. The first guard attacked, but his lunge ended in his own death. The others stiffened in surprise, possibly apprehension, but not fear. These men had forgotten how to be afraid. Arlyn felt like smiling. In another place he might have taken the time to teach it to them again.

They came at him, two this time, but he killed them with little effort, and he knew that doubt would begin to affect their comrades. Hopefully enough for them to disregard their orders not to slay him.

Hesitation increased the tension in the chamber, but then the guards reacted to a terse command and rushed him. Those at the front endured his sword’s thrusts in the effort to subdue him. This was brutal but effective, and their companions were able to disarm and pin him to the granite of the outer wall of the keep. He felt the damp cold trying to sink into his skin.

The captain, his face blank as he came to a halt, pushed his way through. Arlyn met the man’s stare and did not flinch as a fist threw a well-placed blow that sent him into darkness.

CHAPTER TWO

On a ship in the harbour the scholar Turan closed the book he had been studying since dawn had pushed its way into the narrow confines of the cabin. He had spent the night pacing that limited space, waiting for the news that would justify his risk-laden journey so far south in the depths of winter. The message had come just before dawn and it had sent a knife into his heart.

The assassin had failed and been captured alive.

In contrast his daughter, Olana, who had insisted on accompanying him on this venture, had sat, still and contained, watching him with her spiteful eyes.

Turan raised his head to speak to his steward, who had entered the small cabin after a perfunctory knock. ‘Are we ready to sail?’ The steward gave a brief nod. ‘How soon?’

Olana interrupted before the steward could reply. ‘We should stay to see what actions Sennar takes.’

Turan answered evenly, but his displeasure was evident in the hard tone. ‘I think we can safely assume that the assassin will have told Sennar the truth, not that it would make any difference to our fate. Sennar’s armies are bred for war. It was only ever a matter of time before he would look further north for more conquests. We have probably given him the impetus to invade Faleyn sooner than we had feared.’

‘But, Father, do you not want to know what has happened to the assassin?’ Olana said insistently. The woman’s aquamarine eyes flared bright and malice-ridden in the dawn light of the cabin.

‘No. We must hurry home to report to Prince Wydred the results of this … enterprise.’ He choked on the last word. Turan dismissed Olana’s further argument by turning his back on her and looked at the steward. ‘Is there any other news from the keep?’

‘Rumours only, lord.’ The man’s eyes blinked twice to indicate that what he said was in fact truth. You never knew who was listening at keyholes or who you could trust, even on a Faleydrin ship. ‘They say the assassin has not yet talked and that Sennar is unharmed. The word on the dockside is that Hakan Skene-hand, the arena champion, will be summoned to the castle and that he will fight the assassin tonight and kill him.’ He bowed briefly and left.

Turan let his hand rest lightly on the book he had been reading as his eyes became distant and he considered his remaining options. Few could withstand the techniques of Sennar’s chief interrogator. Turan shivered as he thought of the stories he had heard of the man’s brutal torture of suspected rebels and traitors. He doubted that Sennar did not know by now who had engaged the assassin’s services.

Olana surged to her feet to confront her father. ‘We cannot assume that the gladiator will be able to kill the assassin. We should remain, to make sure he dies.’ The tone made her father glance inquisitively at her.

‘Olana, does it matter if he lives or dies? More important is that Sennar will focus all his energy on the annihilation of those who would dare to attempt his murder.’ Turan’s voice was firm.

Silently he cursed the assassin for his failure. The merchant in Lantellir had said that he was one of the best. What had happened in the castle? Damn them both to the hell of criminals.

Turan absent-mindedly rubbed at his left temple. He had a headache forming. He should rest but reports had to be written, to be delivered in due course to Prince Wydred and his fellow scholars, who had prepared the strategy that had brought him here on this fool’s errand. All they had achieved was to hasten the fate they had tried to avoid.

Olana had twisted away and stood at the small porthole to stare at the castle’s black silhouette against the grey sky. The flames from watchfires were catching the panes of glass and sending beams of reflected light onto the restlessly moving water.

‘It was a stupid move, Father. You should never have agreed to the strategy. We should have formed alliances and welcomed Sennar as an ally and—’

‘Is that what you would have done, Olana? Invited the wolf into your sheep pen and asked him to sup with your lambs? Sennar’s appetite for land, wealth and power is insatiable. Elios is growing and they need room and resources to feed the desires and greed of their people. Anvorgh ignored the threat for too long — to their cost.’

He closed his eyes against the memory of what he and his fellow scholars had advised their Prince to say to Gheldryn, Anvorgh’s young king: that Faleyn could send no support or help against the growing threat of the Eliosi. Wydred had offered the king and his family the sanctuary of exile in Faleyn but Gheldryn, a better man than his father, Razil, had politely refused, preferring to be with his people.

Olana turned to face her father. ‘You are right, Father.’ Her voice barely concealed her spite. ‘But we should have tied Sennar to Faleyn with strong alliances that would have left us with a measure of freedom and self-rule. The rumours from his court say that his son’s choice of wife was not well received, and that they would have welcomed a queen with the lineage of Faleydrin royalty.’

Her voice became cool, composed again. ‘To send an assassin to try to kill him was reckless. I wonder that you agreed to it when you yourself were so against the plan.’

Turan tried to keep his temper, but Olana’s animosity had grown tedious on this undertaking. ‘I obey the Prince, Olana, because that is the law.’ His tone indicated that this was the end of the argument.

She bit her lip to hold back an angry reply and instead resumed her position at the porthole to contemplate the new day.

A knock sounded and the steward entered. ‘Lord, do you wish to break your fast?’

Turan looked at Olana’s back but she remained indifferent to the two men. He nodded once and let his attention fall back to the book before him.

***

‘Has he talked yet?’ Rheim asked his father as he helped himself to a thick slice of cold ham and a chunk of bread from the dining board. He was about to return to his seat at the table when a servant entered, a sealed scroll clasped in his hand.

The king waved it to his son, who snatched it without a word. He broke the seal and unrolled the thick paper. His eyes flicked across the page and then he dismissed the man without giving a response.

‘Anything of importance?’ Sennar picked at some fruit on his gold platter, but he was distracted and disinclined to eat.

‘A letter from some of the Anvorghin nobility deploring the assassination attempt and offering all assistance in uncovering the perpetrators.’ Rheim tossed the scroll on to the table as he sat down, but Sennar did not pick it up.

‘For every one of those who have signed this there will be two who deplore the fact that the attempt to kill me failed and who will send more urgent requests to their reluctant allies in Faleyn to ask for aid in their resistance.’

‘We suspect who they are. We should arrest them and let Elgerd use his skills on them.’

‘I prefer to keep them under observation. If we begin to persecute them they will disappear and continue their activities out of my sight – and, more importantly, out of my reach.’ Sennar checked his impatience at Rheim’s political naïveté. ‘Their time to pay for my displeasure will come soon enough.’ He sipped at his honeyed milk, watching his son keenly all the time. ‘I have received news from home.’

Rheim paused and gave his father a disinterested look, which failed to convince the older man.

‘It is said that one of my courtiers is inciting the cratores to take control in my absence.’ The cratores were old men whose wisdom gave them a certain authority and influence with the people, but they had little real power and Sennar had disposed of more than one in his long rule. ‘I speak of your wife’s uncle, who is disputing the ability of an ageing monarch to maintain order in Issilin when he has been absent for so long.’ He paused. ‘Your wife’s brother would no doubt echo the same sentiments, were he given the chance.’

Rheim slowly placed the bread he was about to consume back onto the table. He knew the direction in which his father’s thoughts would move and thought of Ishinez’s half-brother, Aclessandir, who had followed them here to seek his fortune in Anvorgh.

‘Aclessandir is all talk. At the first sight of blood, especially his own, he will turn and run back to his family in Cartelan.’

Sennar did not feel disposed to let Rheim off the hook quite so easily. ‘Do we need to test Ishinez’s loyalty, do you think?’

‘Perhaps you should.’ Rheim gave his father a quick glance. ‘I don’t trust Ishinez at all, and her degenerate brother much less.’ His blunt face spoke volumes about all he knew. ‘She’s far too devious, and I know only half of what she gets up to in that locked chamber of hers.’

Sennar’s impassive face revealed nothing of his knowledge of the room and its contents or of the degradations performed there for his amusement and arousal. After a pause he continued. ‘But she has her uses.’

‘Indeed,’ Rheim said indifferently. ‘She’s good in bed when the mood takes her, and she has her special talent.’ He stopped as he thought of the locked chamber.

‘And when she has outlived her usefulness? After all, she’s only an Irthakian temple whore, whose elevation to the Eliosi royal family still puzzles me.’

Rheim shrugged but did not take the bait. His passion for Ishinez was cooling, which he suspected his father knew.

Sennar picked listlessly at an odd-shaped fruit that he was informed tasted heavenly, but it failed to appeal and he eventually pushed away his plate. He rose to his feet and wandered back to resume his earlier musings at the window, while watching the waves lap endlessly against the foundations of the keep. He shivered as he watched the iron-grey water. In all the lower chambers damp was an infestation. Liquid stained the walls behind the richly embroidered hangings, and its smell mingled with the urine of those nobles unable to find the garderobes.

‘Do you think the Hassassin’s client will know yet that his attempt to assassinate me has failed, that he was betrayed?’ Sennar turned to watch Rheim’s reaction, but his son declined to answer. He narrowed his eyes at his son’s indifference. ‘You know that he isn’t Burahdin?’

‘What?’ Rheim’s surprise was unfeigned. ‘Are you saying he’s not Hassassin?’

‘No, I didn’t say that.’ Sennar unsuccessfully hid his impatience. ‘He carries the mark, but what you should be asking is why the Prince of Burahd would send one of his Hassassin to kill me.’

Rheim sullenly refused to react, which forced Sennar to explain. ‘He wouldn’t. Therefore the man does not enjoy the protection of the Hasilaf Chapter. He is a man for hire. The mark tells me he was once Hassassin, but he’s not been very communicative. When I saw him, in the hour before dawn, he was still refusing to answer any of Elgerd’s questions.’

Rheim finally pushed away his plate and belched as he wiped his mouth and hands on the expensive table linen that the royal ladies of Lehr had embroidered in better times. ‘I didn’t think we had to worry about his identity.’

Sennar snapped back.

‘We don’t. But I am sure that I know who hired him.’ He waited.

‘The Anvorghin rebels?’ Rheim ventured.

‘No. Faleyn.’ Sennar eased his back to straighten himself up.

‘How do you conclude that?’

‘Because the Assassin hasn’t denied it.’ He speared Rheim with a fixed stare. ‘And Prince Wydred knows that we’re a growing power who will eventually move into his territory.’

‘What does it matter who sent him?’

‘It matters because it shows the Faleydrin are prepared to defend aggressively. It also means that we cannot delay until spring. That will give them time to mobilise their armies. We know that they have not fought any wars for a very long time and their commanders lack experience.’

Rheim leant back. ‘It will be no easy task in winter, even for my Issilin First.’

‘But they will not expect it. While they recover from their failure to kill me, we will annihilate them.’

CHAPTER THREE

The needle flashed deflected sunlight as it slid in and out of the heavily embroidered cloth. The Tapestry depicted a snow-touched land with mountains rearing magnificently into the adamantine sky, their shoulders sparkling with a thousand years of ice. Winter-bare trees crowded the foreground like white skeletons and a pale sun spread its gaze on two figures on the slopes of the largest mountain.

A closer inspection showed two warriors, both armed, one bearing a sword reminiscent of ancient Skjarrin weaponry. They were dressed in the leather tunics and body armour of the elite military, over which were fastened sheepskin-lined cloaks tightly secured at their throats.

Perched on the shoulder of one of the mountains was a great, dark fortress, its unglazed windows like malevolent eyes watching the world below. Among the leafless trees other men garbed in the traditional trews and tunics of the men of Faleyn marched purposefully towards a long-foretold confrontation. The heat-poor sun glinted off the metal in their hands and their cloaks swirled with the high winds of the altitude. Their faces were set with grim intent.

A man’s voice intruded on the Weaver’s concentration and asked a question. Nerylla answered honestly, although there was danger in admitting the truth. ‘One is Anvorghin. He was once a forester but is now homeless.’ She did not say which of the figures she described.

‘A man fleeing his inevitable death.’ The voice stilled as her visitor studied the woman’s work. ‘Who is the other?’

Nerylla considered her answer, knowing Alfayric would detect a lie. Yet she feared his reaction should he learn the other’s identity. She kept her hands steady as she turned to meet his uncompromising gaze. ‘An anomaly.’

‘How?’ Alfayric’s startlingly blue eyes flicked briefly at her before returning to look again upon the Tapestry. She pointed to the man bearing the Skjarrin-forged sword.

‘I have restitched the piece four times to erase this figure, but each morning he has returned to the scene.’

Her attention moved back to stitching the cloth. Her voice remained even, and revealed nothing of the turmoil in her thoughts.

‘What do you think it means?’ Alfayric’s tone was pensive but Nerylla was not fooled. She