Orb Sceptre Throne

The eyes flared undisguised dismissal and contempt. ‘One of her creatures, I see. The strings are plain to me.’

‘We were just going.’

‘You are? You will not stay? There is much turmoil. Much … opportunity. Who knows what the final outcome may be?’

‘My choice is made. I will lend my strength where I believe I can do the most.’

The lips twisted into a knowing sneer. ‘And not incidentally positioning yourself very neatly.’

‘Or assuring my inevitable dissolution.’

The sorceress laughed and Kiska felt almost seduced by the richness of her voice. ‘We both know you would not allow that. You would not commit fully otherwise.’

‘No. I have found purpose, Ardata. One far beyond the mere amassing and hoarding of power.’

Kiska noted that in her pacing the sorceress had left behind a trail of black threads that now completely encircled them. Halting, Ardata cocked her head to regard Tayschrenn sidelong. ‘This does not sound like the magus of whom I have heard so much.’

‘That is true. I have … changed.’

The woman darted out a hand, pointing to Kiska. ‘And does this one have something to do with that? Is she responsible?’

Tayschrenn moved to stand before Kiska. ‘She was — integral, yes.’

The sorceress held her arms wide. The black shifting cloths hung from them like cowls, spreading. ‘Then I believe you should remain.’

Darkness swallowed them. Blinded, Kiska hunched, holding her staff ready. An inhuman snarl burst around them, enraged and frustrated. It dwindled then snapped away into silence. The ground shifted beneath Kiska’s feet and she stumbled, almost falling. Then the absolute darkness brightened in stages to mere night, but not night as Kiska knew it. Brighter, with the moon larger and two other globes in the starry sky looking like child’s marbles. One tinted reddish, the other more bluish. To her relief Tayschrenn was still with her.

‘Where are we now?’

‘Closer.’

‘That sorceress … she is your enemy?’

Hands clasped behind his back once more, the mage set off through the tall grass surrounding them. Kiska struggled to catch up. A cool wind smelling of pine billowed her cloak and dried her face. ‘Enemy?’ Tayschrenn mused. ‘No, not as such. No, her hostility was directed against someone else, yes?’

‘The Enchantress.’

‘Yes.’

‘What is the Queen of Dreams to her?’

The mage laughed, startling her. The laughter was completely unguarded, open and uninflected. She’d never heard anything like it from him before. ‘What is she to …’ He laughed again, chuckling as if enjoying the sensation. ‘My dear Kiska. Who do you think held the title of Enchantress before your patron showed up? They are rivals. Bitter rivals. Ardata is ancient. The greatest power of her age. Eclipsed now in this time of Warrens and their mastery.’

‘I see. I didn’t know.’

‘No. And I didn’t expect that you should. But the mark of the Queen is upon you, so you ought to know now.’

Yes. Her ‘strings’. Kiska did not like the sound of that. She wondered whether they were knotted. She knew that she would do all she could to tear them off if that should be so.

‘So, just where are we?’ she asked.

‘This is Tellann. We should be safe here — for a time.’

‘Tellann? But that is Imass! How can we be here?’

The mage glanced at her, startled. ‘You keep surprising me with your knowledge of these things. Why is it you never pursued magery? You could have. Thyr, perhaps?’

Kiska shrugged off the suggestion, uncomfortable. ‘Too much effort.’ She slung her staff over her shoulders as she walked.

‘Too much effort? Yet you put yourself through rigorous physical training little different from torture …’

‘I prefer to act.’

‘You prefer to act,’ the mage echoed again, musing. ‘Impetuous still. Not wise.’

She shrugged beneath the staff, flexed her wrists, feeling the bones cracking. ‘That’s how it is.’

Ahead, a rumbling filled the plain. Beneath the night sky a darker cloud of dust approached from one side. As it closed Kiska heard animal snorting penetrating the din of countless hooves hammering the hardpan prairie. A herd thundered across their path. Great woolly front-heavy beasts, some boasting wicked-looking curved horns.

Movement brushed among the tall grass nearby and Kiska whipped her staff to the side to stand hunched, ready, staff levelled, facing two low eyes across a long narrow muzzle. She stared, fascinated, as those frost-blue eyes bored into her and through her. Then they released her, snapping aside as the beast dodged, loping off through the grass. She almost fell when the gaze abandoned her. She felt exhausted, her heart hammering as if she had been running all evening. Is this the fear of the prey in the face of the hunter? Or an invitation?

Tayschrenn’s gaze followed the wolf as it bounded after the herd. He murmured as if reciting: ‘And what are the gods but need writ large?’

‘What was that?’ Kiska asked, still panting. She pressed the back of a glove to her hot forehead.

‘Just some philosopher’s musings. The wolves, Kiska. The wolves. The gods are restless. They are charging now to their destiny, for that is their role. I sense in this a welcome. Come, let us follow. I recognize the old scent now and I accept. It is time for a long overdue reunion.’

He led the way on to the churned-up trail. Kiska followed, waving the dust and drifting chaff from her face.

Picker was on watch at the front of K’rul’s bar when a knock on the barricaded door made her jump, so startled that she dropped the crossbow. Spindle jerked up from where he napped on one of the benches. Glaring at him to say anything, just one thing, she picked up the weapon then peered out through the boards.

‘Who’re you?’ she called. A low voice murmured something. ‘Yeah, he’s here,’ Picker answered. She looked at Spindle. ‘Someone’s got a message for ya.’

He pushed through to peep. He was a tall fellow, lean, hooded. The evening light made his lined face look even more harsh. Spindle raised his crossbow. ‘What d’ya want?’

‘I have a message that I think is for the sapper here,’ he answered.

‘All’s we got is this fella,’ Picker said.

‘I’m trained!’

‘Barely,’ she grumbled beneath her breath.

‘What is it?’

‘The message is — you should consider the peculiar qualities of the white stone. That’s it. The qualities of the stone.’

Spindle raised a fist. ‘Yes! The stones! I knew it.’ He punched Picker’s shoulder. ‘Didn’t I tell you? We’re on to something, I’m sure!’

She gave him an angry stare then turned to the front. ‘Yeah? Who says … damn.’

‘What?’ Spindle looked: gone. He pushed himself from the barricade and heaved up the crossbow to his shoulder. ‘The stones,’ he murmured, musing. ‘I need to take another look.’

‘All buried now, ain’t they?’ Picker said.

Spindle snapped his fingers. ‘I bet there’s still some down by the mole. I’m gonna go.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ Duiker said from where he sat towards the back.

‘What? Why?’

‘You’re only partially trained,’ the old scholar muttered as he eased himself up.

‘You mean partially house-trained,’ Picker sneered. ‘Anyway — you’re not going anywhere.’

‘Why not?’