Meridian: Black Earth, #2

1

ENCOUNTER

Night had bled from the sky like an open wound, staining everything in shades of darkness. Shadows dripped from the barren trees and ran in pools of obscurity behind the rigid trunks. Even the snow was muted by the absence of the moon and stars, though there were no clouds to be seen. It was the Unseen that puzzled Eraekryst, for he could feel her presence as well as he could feel the heart that beat warily in his chest. The lure to the forest had been his invitation, though his host bid him no welcome. He knew he should not have come, for she was his foe—a foe more dangerous than he cared to consider. But he was not without his own defenses.

The forest warned him in its own way. Whispers among the trees, a chill in the air that hinted he best turn back. It was an old forest alive with old magic and creatures and spirits that had faded from Human consciousness, faded even from fairytales, and into the void of all things forgotten with time. Much like his own people, the Ilangiel. And much like her kind, though it seemed even the Ilangiel had forgotten the name of Seranonde the Huntress. But the forest did not need to know her name to fear her, and it did fear her. The very earth seemed to tremble with an anxiety to which he could relate. She was here, and she was terrible.

So why had he answered her summoning?

I am a fool to be such a willing servant to my curiosity, he thought, his eyes upon the abysmal heavens. But was it merely curiosity that drew him to her, or was there something more—a promise or a truth to be learned? In matters of his own past, she hinted that she could quench his thirst, and if knowledge was a stream, he would guzzle its contents dry.

Eraekryst shivered in spite of himself. He never truly felt the cold, but here he stood alone in the thick of the woods. He had not even told Catherine of his destination, not that he ever felt the need to disclose his whereabouts to his gracious host. Not that she could come to his aid if his enemy decided to harm him.

He gave a cry as he felt something pierce him and hold fast. His fingers danced around the shaft of an arrow jutting from his gut. Eraekryst dropped to his knees, breathless. Golden blood began to soak his attire and slip greasily between his fingers. He could not begin to heal unless he pulled the arrow free. Even if he broke the shaft and the tip remained inside him, it would dissolve with time. He gripped the arrow with both hands and pulled sharply.

Aaah!

The effort had not been enough, but the pain was overwhelming. Eraekryst gasped and leaned against the nearest tree for support. Why have you done this?

She appeared before him like an icy ember from a frozen fire. The cold blue light of her aura did little to illuminate the darkness of her form. Seranonde cast down her hood and replaced the bow upon her back. With quick strides she advanced upon him and knelt behind him, close enough to whisper in his ear.

Seranonde brushed his hair aside, her touch sending tremors through him. The same reason you came, Eraekryst. We both have much to show one another. Her voice could wither petals on a rose.

Remove it, Eraekryst said, strained.

Seranonde’s pale hand emerged in front of him and took hold of the arrow. Then she twisted it.

He doubled over in agony.

"You are young and arrogant, my prince. Your kindred taught you nothing. You were left without guidance, and so you remain a spoiled child." Seranonde twisted the arrow again. You came to me wondering what you would gain from this encounter.

Eraekryst forced his breath through clenched teeth. Chierond was right. She is mad. I must escape her. He tried to ignore the pain, ignore her words so that he could focus upon her mind. If he could disorient her, confuse her, he would have the moment he needed to get away. He conjured images of Chierond, of Veloria, of his parents, and he pressed them to her mind, like slipping a piece of paper beneath a closed door. But this door was made of stone—stone as timeless as Seranonde herself. There were no cracks, no chinks; it was perfectly impenetrable.

Your naivety is entertaining, she said without amusement, jarring him from his objective. I am not here to play, child. This is greater than you. She pressed her icy hands to his face.

Eraekryst found himself immobile as the cold began to seep beneath his skin. The warmth of the Ilán abandoned him, and he could no longer feel the energy sustaining him. He felt naked, alone, and vulnerable. What are you doing to me? he managed, though his voice sounded strange.

Seranonde did not answer.

He looked to where his hands still gripped the shaft of the arrow. The Light was gone, replaced by a growing sense of weakness and nausea. The periphery of his vision was dark, and there was a ringing in his ears that intensified as he began to sway unsteadily. He felt himself falling backwards, into her waiting arms.

She stared down at him without expression, her red-violet eyes watching him intently. Humble yourself, Eraekryst, she murmured.

You aim to kill me, as you did the others, he said, but he was distracted by his own voice. It was brittle and rough, as though stones were in his throat.

Is that what you believe? she asked.

Aye, he gasped.

Look deeper. She snared his eyes with hers, and he could not turn away. Their color faded until he could see the growing image of a figure within them. In horror he realized it was not a mere figure but a reflection—a reflection of himself. Only, he had changed.

There was an old man staring back at him, with lines of age radiating from silver-blue eyes, drooping skin around his mouth and chin, and white hair framing his worn face. An illusion. A tactic to scare him. He broke away from the image and lifted his trembling hands to find that they had the texture of crinkled leaves in the autumn, and bulging veins were woven between his prominent bones. This was no illusion at all.

To know mortality, Seranonde said, is to know one’s own end. Even the mortals have their purpose. They live their lives and continue through their offspring. They know the vigor of youth, the frailty of senescence, the pain of sickness and injury, and finally, the peace of death. She smoothed the white locks back from Eraekryst’s face. How does it feel?

He was speechless.

The immortals, too, had purpose. Long ago, we maintained the balance, and we created this world. Somewhere we decided that our purpose ended with the coming of the Humans. We were content to become characters in mortal folklore. What is left but to hide uselessly amongst the trees while the world we created continues to evolve around us?

It does not have to be so, Eraekryst whispered.

Seranonde hinted a smile. You had other ideas, my prince. They were what led to your betrayal. Look at you now. You have gained your freedom, and yet you wander aimlessly. What became of the would-be emperor of Veloria, the one who would change the role of his people?

I am no leader, he said.

Then you can remain mortal. Return to the Human woman as you are, live your life, and die as they do.

What is it you want? He struggled to sit up, but there was no strength in his arms.

I want to restore the balance, Seranonde said, her eyes glittering.

The Durgoth are dead. There are none to replace their Shadow.

We do not need Shadow. We have the power to give or take life, to create or destroy. She reached and tore the arrow from him in one quick motion.

Eraekryst gave a cry and felt the blood spilling from him. Then Seranonde’s hand was atop the wound, drawing the flesh together, healing him with her magic. There are the laws, he said, watching her. We do not take life.

Nor do we seem to sustain it. The Ilangiel created these laws in a time that has passed, a world that no longer exists. This is the time for change. We must become a part of this new world or be left behind. You know this better than any of your foolish kindred. She eased him against the tree. We are alike in thought, alike in our isolation.

You are a murderess, Eraekryst said.

You have ghosts of your own, Seranonde returned. Those who have sacrificed their lives for a greater cause. Before you judge me, you should discover yourself and the truth about our kind. You have much to consider before we meet again. She stood, and the wind began to blow.

You will leave me this way? he asked, trying feebly to get up.

That is your decision, my prince. What will you do with yourself? Live a mortal life? Return to the friend who rejects your company? Or become the leader you are meant to be? Seranonde turned away and moved into the shadows.

You ask that I join you, Eraekryst said.

There was no response; Seranonde was gone.

He used the tree as a support to stand, finding the exertion tired him. He had never been tired before, never been so weak—even when he had lost all hope within the Black Mountain. She had taken the Ilán from him, but she had not killed him. To what avail is this hindrance? he asked aloud. Did she wish to revel in his torture? Force him into action to suit her needs? Or did he somehow present a threat she wanted removed?

Slowly he began his walk to Catherine’s manor, finding that his feet were no longer light atop the snow. Everything about his body and his movements was heavy, weighted. Each step was an effort, and what made the journey so much more unbearable was the biting cold that he had not felt before. Before long, his fingers and toes were stinging, his nose numb, and his eyes watering. The frosty air burned his lungs so that he could not take a full breath.

Is this my fate, then? Join you or live a mortal’s life? Are you watching me from the shadows, laughing as I struggle in this form? If this is how you seek to gain allies, then you must earn far more enemies. He stopped to catch his breath and search the surrounding woods. Even his sight was inferior to what it had been.

You now know the obstacles of your Demon friend, said a voice in his mind.

Never did I belittle his difficulties, Eraekryst said aloud. But a mortal’s physical transformation is not quite as dramatic a change as losing one’s immortality.

Change is relative. Maybe you will learn a lesson in this.

Eraekryst waved the voice away and marched ahead. "She is trying to impart a lesson, aye. ‘Tis counteractive to stir one to action if you so disable him."

You have to prove yourself to her. She’s testing you, you dullard.

What have I to prove? That I might meet her expectations? Eraekryst shivered violently and wrapped his arms around his body. He sniffled and stopped. What is this? Some affliction that insists upon dripping… He wiped his nose upon his sleeve and stared, disgusted.

It’s what happens when you get cold. You best get used to it. And you best keep walking lest you get frostbitten.

Frostbitten?

Don’t explain it to him. I hope he loses his fingers and toes for what he’s done to us. Let him die in the cold.

I am not to blame for your condition, Eraekryst said. I need your vindictiveness as much as I appreciate this aged physical form.

Just keep walking.

He trudged forward miserably, his mind still circling over his encounter with the Huntress. If this is a test, then what must I do to succeed? What is the price to be restored? I have already looked to my people to find the truth, and naught has come of it. If this is a puzzle she wishes me to solve, I will do better. She has demonstrated her power, and I shall do the same. I am no child, but I will be her bane.

And how will you do that, old man?

I will find a way, he muttered, and wiped his nose again.

Lady Catherine Lorrel, Countess of Silvarn, gawked at the visitor waiting at her doors. He was pale and trembling, his arms locked tightly around his chest. His pointed nose was as red as his thin lips were blue. He was tall with shoulders slightly bent, and his clothes sagged upon his lean frame. They were Eraekryst’s clothes—she had given them to him—but it could not be the Ilangien who wore them. This man did not glow, and he was much too old. But his reddened ears were pointed, and his lengthy white hair was bound in just the way Eraekryst bound his. This stranger had to be sixty-some years of age; Eraekryst wore the appearance of a man no older than thirty.

Yet a signature pair of silver-blue eyes regarded her humorlessly as he sniffled. ’Tis a temporary affliction, he said. And I would appreciate the warmth of your hearth, if it not be an inconvenience. You might stare from an armchair while I rekindle the feeling in my limbs.

It was him. Eraekryst? she breathed. He did not respond, but she stepped aside to allow him passage. She followed him to the sitting room. Wh-what happened to you?

He did not face her as he stood close enough to the hearth to singe his boots. Were you aware that you live adjacent to an enchanted forest?

I…I knew it was special. Enchanted? I never considered it.

I have considered it for you. Do not venture yonder.

I played there all the time as a child. Eraekryst, what happened? You must tell me. Catherine crossed the room to sit in a nearby chair.

As I said, ‘tis a temporary affliction. He sniffled again and stretched his fingers. Ahh, why do they burn so?

Catherine was on her feet again. Sara, please bring some tea and a bowl of warm water. She watched the servant hurry away, then went to Eraekryst’s side. Forgive me, I did not mean to neglect you— She caught his eyes and blinked again at the change in him. Embarrassed, she took his hands. Jedinom’s Grace. Move back from the flames.

They are warm.

Too warm for your hands right now. That is why they burn. Sit down.

He immediately lowered himself where he stood, but he did so a little too quickly. There was a crack, then his groan as he fell the rest of the way.

Careful, now, she said, steadying him. You need to mind yourself.

How does one live in this fashion? he said through a wince. Day after day, how do you contend with such misery?

Catherine smiled wryly. Oh, I manage. Remove your boots; your feet are likely in as bad a shape as your hands. When he struggled with the task, she came to his aid. And you say this is temporary? How do you aim to remedy your condition?

’Tis not a concern with which I will burden you, Lady Catherine.

Says the immortal who cannot remove his own footwear, she muttered, then regretted her words when his shoulders drooped. She set the boots aside and pressed his feet between her hands. Erik, it has been a month since you appeared at Lorrelwood. I welcomed you as my guest knowing how alone you must be with Medoriate Crow on his mission with the king. Admittedly, we have both had to adjust to each other’s eccentricities, but it has been my pleasure to have your company. I was hoping by now we might have nurtured a bit of…well, honesty between each other. I have never asked where you go when you disappear for days at a time, and perhaps it is none of my business. But when you return to me so—changed—I feel I am entitled to some explanation.

A shadow fell upon the both of them as the servant returned with a tray bearing the requested items. Thank you, Sara, Catherine said, and the servant retreated, her eyes fastened upon Eraekryst.

Catherine dipped the cloth in the warm water and wrung it thoroughly before she wrapped the Ilangien’s hand inside it. You have to warm up slowly, she murmured. The tea will help.

Eraekryst started to lift the cup with his free hand, but his fingers were still not functioning properly. He nearly spilled the vessel before Catherine took it from him. A little patience, then, she said.

This will not do, Eraekryst blurted. I am not so helpless as to warrant this excessive attention.

You will have to adjust with time, she said, her voice flat, since you will not disclose to me what happened or how I can help you.

Time? Oh, this will not last. I will not allow it, I assure you. And there is naught for you to fret—

"Erik, fretting is for someone who is anxious. I am not anxious. I am worried and fearful, for you have returned to me forty years older than when you had left!" she cried.

There was a moment of silence before Eraekryst responded, his voice softer. If worry and fear have taken you, then I promise that I will allay them. He looked at her. This will pass.

Catherine frowned, but nodded. Very well. I will trust in you, but I ask that you come to me if there is any way I can assist you. You are never a burden…so long as you mind your manners. She had hoped to coax even a slight smile from him. He obliged her that much, drawing her attention to new lines upon his face.

There is a feeling, he said, which I cannot place.

What is it? she asked gently.

My strength abates, and my eyes yearn to close. To sit here for much longer would require an attentiveness I have lost, and as my focus wavers, I find… He yawned, then opened his eyes wide. "I have seen the durmorth in such a state."

You are tired, Catherine said. And once I have seen that you are recovered, I will have Sara prepare your bed.

You think I must rest.

Sleep, yes.

How does one sleep?

Catherine blinked. I have a feeling that it will come to you, whether you wish it or not, but you close your eyes and relax.

He continued to watch her expectantly.

That is all, Erik. And the deeper the sleep, the better the chance that you will dream.

Eraekryst shook his head. I do not wish to dream. I have seen the dreams of mortals, and they are terrible.

That is a nightmare, and not all dreams are so terrible. Catherine removed the cloth and pressed the cup into his hand. You have nothing to fear from dreams.

I do not fear anything, he said, and took a drink.

Of course not, Catherine said.

2

CHALLENGES

Arythan gave a mighty yawn and hefted a bundle of red robes into the hearth. The fire was well-fed that morning, and he had plenty of fuel to keep it ablaze the rest of the day. He had been given permission to remodel Cyrul Frostmeyer’s study to suit his own needs. Then again, permission was not the right word. He was encouraged to begin this project, and he was even given assistance.

He glanced at the gaping hole in the stone wall where he, among several laborers, had chipped away and broken through the exterior. The mason had not had a chance to properly fix the gap into a new entrance, so Arythan had employed one of the castle tapestries as his door. The old entrance had been barricaded on account of Frostmeyer’s deadly spell—a spell made known to him by the Ilangien before Arythan had accompanied the king to Kitrimar. No one had died while barring the original door, though he wondered how the mason intended to set new stone without ending up a pile of ashes. It was not a problem that concerned him now; he had plenty of other challenges on his mind.

The first was how he would ever make sense of Frostmeyer’s mess. Not only had the wizard an overabundance of possessions, but there did not seem to be much order as to how he kept them. For the majority of his life, Arythan had owned little more than the clothes on his back and a pair of boots. What would he do with all this stuff?

Papers, books, bottles, and preserved animal pieces were littered amongst the debris from the stone, as if some great whirlwind had passed through to spite him for taking Frostmeyer’s place. And that was the second challenge that perplexed him: his position. He had, upon his return to Cerborath, given his official oath to King Garriker, and he could not help but wonder exactly what that meant for him. Had he signed away his freedom? Was he trapped within the castle, bound to a life of servitude until his dying day? Would he be expected to perform tasks he could not manage?

Challenge three: the Black Ice. At the moment, it was a task he could not manage. Prince Michael had given him a temporary reprieve of journeying to the Ice Plains to sift through Frostmeyer’s notes. What would he find, would they make sense, and what, exactly, was he supposed to do? It was one great mystery that loomed like a brewing storm in his future.

The best truth about his challenges was that they provided a welcome distraction from his most recent loss: the shattered knife that had contained his Shadow. If this was to be a new life, he would have to forget about the pieces of his past. He would have to carve—perhaps literally—a place for himself in this kingdom.

Arythan ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. He hefted a massive volume of Spells of Transformation and nearly dropped it again. His arms throbbed fiercely from his own makeshift masonry, but other than some pulled muscles, he had nearly recovered from the attack in Kitrimar. Ignoring the pain, he lifted the book again and walked it to the hearth, where it met its doom. Nothing wizardly would benefit him, though he was unwilling to destroy everything that Frostmeyer had accumulated. There were, for instance, several journals—accounts of Frostmeyer’s endeavors and social engagements—that had actually made him laugh aloud. Who knew when he would need a good laugh in the future?

He sighed as he watched the book catch fire and blacken. At this rate, he would need another week before he could see the floor again. And still there were shelves and niches he had scarcely glimpsed. He looked around the room and sighed again.

The sudden banging of metal against stone made him jump. Wide-eyed, he gawked at the entrance and waited for someone to appear. Instead he was greeted with a growl. Get out ‘ere, y’ bloodrot bastard!

Dagger was angry. What did I do now? Arythan wondered, knowing how temperamental the brute could be. It was remarkable enough that Dagger would venture anywhere near a place of magic. Something is definitely amiss.

The mage peered outside his study to see the brute waiting with arms crossed. Blue eyes narrowed to dark slits set in his reddened face, Dagger worked his scruffy jaw as though he was chewing a piece of bark. Get y’arse out ‘ere now, he ordered. He uncrossed his arms and took a step forward, as if he was considering dragging Arythan from the room.

Why? the mage asked, reluctant to go anywhere with the black-clad killer.

’Cuz if y’ don’t, I’ll bury a knife in y’r ‘ead where y’ stand.

No, you won’t. He knew Dagger would not talk, and he knew the brute was not going to leave until he followed him. Might as well learn what this is about. Arythan stepped from the room and thrust his arm forward. I can walk by m’self, thanks.

The brute mumbled some sort of insult before leading the way out of the keep, through the bailey, and to the gatehouse where two horses stood waiting. Each time he turned back to see if Arythan was following, the mage would respond with a blank expression.

They mounted and trotted down the road leading to the royal city. Once they were through the gates, Dagger continued along the wall, at the outskirts of the community. Arythan had a strong suspicion where they were headed. He had been to Diana Sherralin’s cottage more times than he would like to admit. The healer was as sympathetic as stone, but she was forthright and honest and so earned Arythan’s respect. If he had learned anything about Diana’s disposition toward Garriker’s B.E.S.T., it was that she tolerated them at best. So why Dagger would lead him here, he could not fathom an answer.

As they dismounted before her cottage, Arythan noticed two other black horses already in the paddock. This promised to be something serious. And then his stomach knotted. I’m a mage, not a healer, he thought, believing he was probably brought there out of desperation. He did not want to walk through the door.

Dagger gave him a rough shove from behind, and Arythan nearly spun and struck him. He bit his lip and entered the cottage. Tigress and Hunter were standing beside a cot; Diana was at the hearth. The two B.E.S.T. looked at him, and Tigress shook her head. Arythan realized this gesture was for Dagger and not for him.

She told you fetching him was pointless, Tigress told the brute, who ignored her and herded Arythan toward the cot.

Spider. The old man had struggled on their journey from Kitrimar back to Cerborath. No one knew what was wrong with him, but apparently his ailment had worsened. Spider’s form did not move, but his eyes had found the mage. At first glance, Arythan could not distinguish anything abnormal about the man.

Then Spider spoke. Medoriate. Did you…come…alone? His voice was tight, each word uttered with great effort, as though his mouth was resisting him.

Dagger brought me, Arythan said, confused.

Not…him. Women.

Arythan blinked. Sorry, he said, wondering how a sick man could muster any humor. And by the way his face contorted, Spider was clearly in pain.

Next time…perhaps.

Dagger grabbed the mage’s sleeve and pulled him closer to the cot. ’E’s not ‘ere for that, mate. ‘E’s ‘ere to fix y’.

Spider said nothing, but kept his hopeful regard upon Arythan. Arythan searched the room for anyone who would help him. Hunter had turned away; Tigress frowned but maintained her silence. Diana might well have not heard the claim, for her back was still toward them.

All of you know I can’t help him, he thought angrily. But you brought me here anyway. What am I supposed to do? Lie to him? Or you want me to be the one to tell him he’s doomed? Cowards. Bloody cowards. Arythan shook his head. I’m just a mage.

Y’re a bloodrot—they’re all the same. Wiggle y’r fingers, say a few bloody words, and be done with it, Dagger ordered.

Doesn’t work like that, Arythan seethed, unless y’ want me to ‘ave it rain on ‘im. The heat was rising to his face, but he felt paralyzed, held in place by Spider’s stare.

Liar, Dagger spat. "’S y’r fault ‘e’s this way, so y’ better find a way to ‘elp ‘im. Now." The brute’s face tensed in a way Arythan did not like.

I don’t lie. His eyes locked on Tigress, wondering why she did not intervene. I can’t ‘elp ‘im.

So tha’s it? Dagger said quietly.

Here it comes.

The brute shoved the contents of a nearby table to the floor. The sound of shattering pottery and clattering tools filled the tense silence. Dagger! Tigress shouted.

Then what good are y’? the brute roared, flecks of spit showering the mage as he lunged toward him.

Arythan braced himself for a collision; there was nowhere for him to go. But Hunter’s massive arms had Dagger restrained.

I want the lot of you outside now! Diana shrilled, her tolerance at its limit. Her pale cheeks were flushed scarlet.

Tigress made a gesture, and Hunter placed himself between Dagger and Arythan as they made their way for the door.

Worthless bastard! This is ‘is fault. I’ll kill ‘im. I’ll bash ‘is ‘ead in with me fist. Dagger’s curses continued from outside.

Diana stopped Arythan on his way out. Not you, Medoriate. She waited until the B.E.S.T. were outside, and the door was shut behind them. I had told them not to involve you. They knew there was nothing you could do. They’re a pack of animals. I swear she lives to antagonize people.

Arythan could still feel the heat in his face, burning his eyes. He stared at the door as if they would come barging back inside.

Sit down, Diana said, her voice gentler. Do not go believing this is your fault in any way. I have already heard the story. I know this is the work of the Desneran wizard.

At last Arythan took a breath and turned toward the cot. Spider had closed his eyes, but the mage doubted he had found any peace. What’s wrong with ‘im?

Diana went to fetch a broom. I wish I knew. Whatever spell or curse was placed upon him, the wizard wanted him to suffer. He can scarcely move, says that his body feels heavy and stiff. She tucked a stray lock behind her ear. "It’s more than a feeling; his skin—it’s hardening—as if he’s turning to stone. She shook her head and went to sweep up Dagger’s mess. And there is nothing I can do for him, either."

Arythan watched her in silence, unable to alleviate the guilt he felt. He knew he was not at fault, but somehow his inability to cure Spider had stirred feelings of doubt and inadequacy. What good am I? he thought. And just what am I doing here? It was not the first time he had asked himself this question.

"How are you feeling, Arythan? Diana asked, her eyes sweeping over him in suspicion. It still amazes me that no one in Kitrimar had taken the time to stitch your wounds. The scars will be larger."

I did not let them stitch the wounds. I’m fine.

You know, I can tell when someone is lying.

Goodonya. I don’t lie, he repeated. The last thing he wanted was an examination in front of a dying man.

Well that’s very respectable. Diana said. She ladled a bowl of stew from the cauldron. Arythan, do sit down. You look like you carry the weight of all Secramore upon your shoulders. She approached him with the bowl. Here, eat something.

Thanks, he said quietly, but I should go. His eyes kept returning to the old man in the cot.

Diana touched his arm and waited until his eyes met hers. Simple men act before they think. Dagger has deemed you responsible for Spider’s condition. Watch yourself, Arythan. He is dangerous.

Really? Arythan nodded. Right. He adjusted his coat and headed outside into the blustery afternoon. He was not surprised to find his horse was gone, but it was just as well. The long walk back to Crag’s Crown would give him time to sort through his thoughts.

Prince Michael Garriker III found himself pinned against the wall, a foil pointed at his chest. His short laugh was flavored with a hint of nervousness and embarrassment. I must say that I did not quite expect this.

On the other side of the weapon, his opponent’s expression was nothing but serious. Brassy blond locks had fallen haphazard into Arythan Crow’s lean and bearded face, shadowing striking blue eyes that nearly glowed from their depths, giving him all the appearance of a madman or a demon. A demon was closer to the truth, though if there was any madness to him, it had yet to surface.

Arythan retreated, and Michael straightened and smoothed back his short, black hair. It was a rare moment when he appeared without his customary wig and penciled moustache, but this was hardly an activity of formality. Still, there was etiquette involved in fencing, and he bowed to the victor of the bout.

What you do, Crow, is not anything I have seen before. In my defense, my experience does me little good when my adversary fights in such a unique fashion. I should teach you how to properly engage in a bout.

There’s nothing proper about staying alive, Arythan said.

True enough. This is all the difference between a noble’s pastime and a warrior’s survival. But I had been led to believe you were a performer.

Arythan shrugged.

Michael approached him and patted him on the back. You have successfully exhausted me for one night, Medoriate. He bent to whisper in the shorter man’s ear. And I will have to regain the favor of my lady. He indicated where his wife Ladonna and Prince Banen’s betrothed, Victoria Ambrin, peered from the entrance of the arena. We have an audience.

They’ve been there almost since we started, Arythan said.

Truly? Michael was incredulous. They both watched as the women ducked out of sight. Then you were purposely making me look bad.

I wouldn’t do that.

Really, Crow, for a chance to impress Lady Victoria? I know you have won her interest, Michael said, returning his weapon to the rack.

She thinks I slept with ‘er, tha’s why.

Oh. Summerfall. Right. And you did not, then.

Arythan gave him a look.

Of course you did not. Michael nodded. Then he winked, causing the mage to sigh. You know, for some strange reason, she was referring to you by your friend’s name. Any idea why?

At last Arythan cracked a slight smile, but he said nothing.

A secret? That is cruel. You know I cannot stand to be uninformed. Michael followed him to the door. Which brings me to comment: you missed dinner. Were you so engaged as to neglect a meal?

I was taking a walk, Arythan said.

Oblivious to the mage’s reluctance to share, Michael pressed him. Did this walk have a destination?

I was coming back from Dianar’s, came the irritated response.

Ah. The prince frowned. This is about the B.E.S.T.—their ailing comrade. What is—

Rather not talk about it, Arythan interrupted, then apologized.

Then I will interrogate you no further. You did miss an issue of importance at dinner. He waited until the mage’s attention was upon him before he produced an envelope. I intended to give you this. He gave it to Arythan and watched him examine the wax seal. It is from my cousin, Catherine Lorrel of Silvarn.

Arythan started to tuck it away, but Michael spoke up. Open it now, Crow. How many secrets do you intend to keep?

The mage tore into the envelope and produced a short letter.

I can read it to you, if you prefer— The prince was cut short by Arythan’s glare.

The mage redirected his attention toward the contents, then folded the letter as if to reseal it in the envelope.

Well? Michael asked.

Arythan handed it to him and waited. When the prince had finished reading, his brow furrowed with concern, and he looked at the mage. So your friend, Erik, has not left Cerborath as you had first thought. How he sought shelter with my cousin, however, is a mystery unto itself. If Catherine says he is ill, you must go to him. Michael rubbed his chin in thought. We shall go together. I would enjoy the chance to visit my cousin, and you can tend to your companion. He paused to gauge Arythan’s reaction. Why so fearful? If this was a serious malady, Diana would have already been summoned.

Erik doesn’t get sick.

Everyone gets sick.

Not ‘im. Not unless ‘e’s poisoned.

Michael turned away from the insinuation. We will set forth tomorrow. Bright and early if you wish it. He placed a hand on Arythan’s arm as the mage headed out of the building. I am sure he is merely lonely. As you say, ‘no worries.’

3

OLD FRIENDS

"I have not been this way in years, Michael remarked, gazing at the snowy fields through the foggy window of the carriage. He pointed at the rows of snow-covered mounds as they passed. Come summer this land will be bountiful with the sweetest little red berries you will ever have the pleasure of sampling. The prince smiled, stretching the penciled moustache that spanned his upper lip. Silvarn is known for its wine and its jam, but when my brother and I were much younger, we would race through the fields and eat them fresh. The contest was who could pick the most, but to eat too many earned the victor a sour belly.

Once we pass these fields and into the woods, we will nearly be there. You will not find my cousin’s manor as bustling as the castle. Life here is…simpler, Michael said.

Y’ say that like ‘tis a bad thing, Arythan returned. I like the quiet.

Yes, I dare say you would, Michael agreed. That is where we differ. He paused, his brow furrowing. I had debated whether or not I should mention this, but it has been a lingering suspicion of mine, and I think you ought to be aware of it.

Arythan leaned forward, intrigued.

Do you have a side of your family that is viewed as a little odd, Crow?

How do I answer that?

Michael continued without his response. We cannot choose our family, and while I love my cousin, she is the subject of many rumors.

Aren’t we all? Arythan thought, aware of the vices of the aristocracy. He rarely entertained anything he heard second-hand, but for the sake of conversation, he asked, What sort o’ rumours?

‘Mad Cate the Crone,’ they call her, Michael said, his voice lower. Some say she is a witch.

An’ I’m a mage. What’s wrong with that?

I am surprised at you. Of anyone, I would think you know that there is good magic and bad magic. Her crops are always green, her servants always happy. I am told the wild animals eat from her hand, and the wind obeys her commands.

Arythan scratched his beard. I don’ understand. Sounds bonzer to me.

She’s bewitched the land, Michael insisted. "Everything she touches is under her charm. Consider your friend. He had only ever met her