she could defeat whole armies on her own and, increasingly, the Cha'Tel'Quessir were inclined to let her.
Let humanity fight its battles with human blood and magic, the tribal elders said; Cha'Tel'Quessir began and ended with the Yuirwood.
Bro-Ebroin of MightyTree-had never felt closer to his Cha'Tel'Quessir roots than when a length of burning roof beam crashed to the floor between him and his sister. His first thought when he'd carried her outside was to run for the trees and the forest. His second, wiser, thought was that Tay-Fay couldn't run that far. His third was for the colt, Zandilar's Dancer, who could.
He was halfway down the path to the barnyard when a fourth, unwelcome, thought snuck into his overheated mind: the colt-his colt-might be the cause of this magic-born destruction. Although he hadn't seen Zandilar since the colt was born, the memory of her was always near the surface of his thoughts.
Come when you're ready.
Even now the apparition shimmered behind his eyes. Had Zandilar danced for someone else? Had she withdrawn the invitation and come to claim the colt herself?
Bro came to a flat-footed stop short of the barnyard. He stared at a fencepost, not knowing what held his attention until his mind snapped and he saw a man's body-the lower half of it. Something-magic-had sliced through his gut. His upper half was missing, not flung aside or shattered, but gone. The gaping wound was dark and shiny. There was no blood, not on the ground, nor the post.
The smell of roast meat was in the air.
The boots were Dent's.
Bro's bones froze. Shivering free of Tay-Fay, he dropped to his knees and retched without result.
A small, light hand tapped his shoulder: Tay-Fay. Bro prayed to all the gods that she didn't see what leaned against the fence post. For her sake, he gulped down his terror, raised his head, met her eyes. She pointed away from the fence post, at a man coming toward them.
By his clothes, Bro marked the man as one of the grain traders who'd been at the mill since new moon. He'd had dark blonde hair then, but he was bald now and his face was dark and blotchy.
Burns, Bro told himself, though even at this distance he could see that the marks weren't burns. Scars, then-or tattoos. All the winter tales agreed that the Red Wizards covered their faces with tattoos and covered their tattoos when they came to Aglarond.
Bad cess, Dent had said when the grain traders arrived a month before Sulalk's grain was ripe. They were different men than those who'd come in previous years. Their prices were better and they paid in advance. That pleased some of the Sulalkers. They sold their grain while it was still on the stalk, but not Bro's stepfather.
I'll wait, Dent had said. No good comes of selling the grain before it's reaped, or selling it to strangers. Mark me well, Bro, they've got something to hide. The truth will come out.
And it had, out, for all the good truth had done for Dent. The traders were spies, Thayan wizards, and whatever their purpose in Sulalk, they weren't leaving witnesses. The man had noticed him and Tay-Fay. They had one choice left: they could run and be blasted from behind, or they could stand and meet death face-on.
Bro thought of a third choice. A scorched pitchfork lay at Dent's side. Bro seized it and vaulted over the fence. The wizard raised his hands in a dramatic gesture. Bro's breath caught in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, only to open them again a moment later, when he found he was still alive.
Magic didn't always work. Suddenly, a scared half-elf with a pitchfork had the advantage over a wizard. With the shaft braced against his flank, Bro broke into a run. He pursued the tattooed man across the fenced-in yard, catching him at the stile steps and thrusting the fork's tines into his back. The wizard died swiftly. His shriek was the first sound Bro heard since he'd clambered across the stream a lifetime ago.
A swift death wasn't enough, not for Dent or Sulalk, certainly not for his mother.
Bro jerked the pitchfork free. When the corpse fell to the ground, he pierced it again and again. He'd have kept at his bloody work until his arms tired, but another blast drove the madness out. Seeing what he'd done, Bro let the pitchfork fall. He ran back to the fence, wiping his hands on his trousers as he went.
'Tay-Fay! Tay-Fay!' The sounds were barely audible to his ears.
His sister hadn't wandered. She stood by the fence post, sprinkling blades of grass over Dent's legs; the gods alone knew why. Bro didn't ask, just wiped his hands one last time before extending them toward her. She dropped the last few broken blades and wrapped her fingers around his.
The barn was dim, as it always had been, but eerie, too, when all Bro could hear was echoes. He cursed himself for leaving the pitchfork behind: Every dusty shadow here might hide another wizard. Movement flickered in the corner of his eye. He pulled his sister close and waited.
Heart beats passed; Tay-Fay squirmed. Bro lifted her onto his shoulders.
His heart sank when he saw the open door to Dancer's stall, the empty peg where the colt's knotted halter usually hung. He was too late. The wizards had gotten what they'd come for. Or-bitter thought-Dent had done him a favor and set the colt out to pasture before he died. A hand, not his own, brushed away Bro's first tear. He tried to set his sister down, but she wouldn't release his shirt.
They approached the stall together.
They weren't too late.
Zandilar's Dancer had squirreled himself into the far corner. The colt's neck was flat, his ears were flatter against his sweat-soaked head and there were white rings around his eyes. If his ears hadn't been ringing from the thunder blasts, Bro knew they would have ached from the sound of Dancer's panicked fury. It wasn't safe to enter the stall. He called the colt's name, hoping to calm him but Dancer ignored him.
Belatedly, Bro realized there was someone else in the stall.
A pale-haired stranger stood in another corner. The stranger wore dark boots, trousers, and a belted shirt. Men's clothes such as the grain-traders had worn, but this stranger was a woman whom Bro had never seen before-unless one of the wizards had been better disguised than the rest. She was taller than most women and slender enough to pass for Cha'Tel'Quessir. Indeed, Bro thought she was Cha'Tel'Quessir, until she studied him with eyes that shone with their own milky light.
She pointed a long forefinger at the space between his eyes.
Bro had faced an angry wizard already this morning; he wasn't fool enough to think he'd survive a second encounter. He unwound an unresisting sister from his shoulders and pressed her face against his breast.
'Ember?'
He saw the stranger's lips move, but her voice was magic inside his head. He wondered, briefly, how she knew Shali's name for him. Not that it mattered. The stranger's eyes blazed; Bro closed his.
'Worse than that, wizard.'
Her voice echoed between Bro's ears. His knees grew weak and he prayed that he wouldn't fall before she struck him down.
'I am the witch-queen of Aglarond and you've made your very last mistake.'
A force like the kick of the mightiest horse knocked Bro sideways. He struck his head on the doorpost. Like Shali, he thought… like Mother… and then he thought nothing at all.
'Bro! Wake up, Bro! Hurry!'
Bro woke up; he hadn't been asleep. He didn't know what he'd been doing, or where he was, or who the little girl tugging on his sleeve was, not until he took a deep breath. The little girl was his sister. He was on the packed dirt ground outside Dancer's stall. What he'd been doing-how he'd fallen-that remained a mystery that Bro tried to solve by raising his head. Pain threatened to blast his skull from the inside out. When it subsided, Bro was sitting and the mystery was solved. He remembered everything from the moment he put his feet on the floor this morning to the stranger's milky eyes and the words she'd left in his head.
'Hurry, Bro!'
Tay-Fay retreated a step and, with her hands braced adultlike on her hips, stamped her foot impatiently. A man's body sprawled behind her, made visible by her retreat. At least Bro thought the mangled corpse had once been a man; it didn't belong to the pale-haired woman who'd struck him down.
'Hurry,' Tay-Fay repeated. Her voice was faint, but clear. 'She's getting away. She's taking your horse.'
She-the pale-haired woman, the witch-queen of Aglarond-Bro gasped as the morning's events formed a pattern in his thoughts. The Simbul had come to Sulalk because she knew everything that happened in Aglarond and because everything in Aglarond belonged to her, if she wanted it. The Red Wizards had followed the queen,
