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The Hand of Keos

by

Justin Travis Call

Published November 2012 as “Mythopoeia and the Hero’s Journey in The Hand of Keos,” a Thesis in the Field of

Literature and Creative Writing for the Degree of Master of Liberal Arts in Extension Studies, Harvard University.

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Copyright 2012 Justin Call

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Dedication

For Darwin

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Acknowledgments

This novel would not have been possible without the help of many people who provided

support and insight along the way, including my creative writing professors, Salvatore Scibona,

Paul Harding, and Christopher Scott Gleason; my thesis director, Professor Maria Tatar; and my

research advisor, Dean Sue Schopf. A special thanks goes to the members of my writers group—

Neil Angis, Christine Frost, Henry Kesner, Stephan Magro, Merrill Meadow, Joe Raposo, and

Frank White—who provided feedback on the drafts of my first chapters.

Finally, I’d like to thank my wonderful wife Collette, who sincerely dislikes fantasy

literature, but is supportive of my love for it and has consistently listened to me discuss the

outlining, development, and writing of this novel and other forthcoming books in the Lore of

Luquatra series.

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Table of Contents

Dedication ...................................................................................................................................... iii

Acknowledgments.......................................................................................................................... iv

Table of Contents ........................................................................................................................... vi

The Hand of Keos ............................................................................................................................1

Maps .....................................................................................................................................2

Prelude: The Age of Kings ..................................................................................................4

Prologue: The Age of Rebirth ............................................................................................11

Chapter 1: The Visitor .......................................................................................................39

Chapter 2: Testing Day ......................................................................................................68

Chapter 3: The Academy ...................................................................................................86

Chapter 4: Acolyte of Faith................................................................................................95

Chapter 5: Avatar of Judgment ........................................................................................108

Chapter 6: Friends and Enemies ......................................................................................119

Chapter 7: The Final Test ................................................................................................137

Chapter 8: Tosan ..............................................................................................................158

Chapter 9: Bartering .........................................................................................................174

Chapter 10: Ancient Secrets.............................................................................................198

Chapter 11: The Wood Witch ..........................................................................................218

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Chapter 12: Phoenix Fire .................................................................................................234

Chapter 13: Feurog ..........................................................................................................246

Chapter 14: Stolen Glances ..............................................................................................261

Chapter 15: Sodar’s Welcome .........................................................................................281

Chapter 16: Regaleus .......................................................................................................296

Chapter 17: Descendant of Breathanas ............................................................................310

Chapter 18: The Battle of Vosgar ....................................................................................324

Chapter 19: Seventhday ...................................................................................................340

Chapter 20: Master of Sorrows ........................................................................................355

Chapter 21: The End of Innocence ..................................................................................375

Chapter 22: Banok ...........................................................................................................393

Chapter 23: Janak .............................................................................................................413

Chapter 24: Four Birds.....................................................................................................427

Chapter 25: The Stuff of Shadows ...................................................................................446

Chapter 26: An Unlikely Guide .......................................................................................454

Chapter 27: Son of Keos ..................................................................................................475

Chapter 28: The Vault of Damnation ...............................................................................491

Chapter 29: Of Men and Monsters...................................................................................504

Chapter 30: Embracing the Phoenix ................................................................................513

Chapter 31: Light and Shadows .......................................................................................529

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Chapter 32: The Hand of Keos ........................................................................................552

Chapter 33: Embers and Ashes ........................................................................................576

Epilogue ...........................................................................................................................598

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The Hand of Keos

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Greater Luqura, Western Daroea

[Map]

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Chaenbalu

[Map]

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Prelude: The Age of Kings

“A Translation of a Fragment of the Book of Odar Recovered from the Ruins of Speur Dún.” The

Second Age of Luquatra: The Age of Kings. The Complete Histories of Luquatra. Vol. 2. 2nd ed.

Quiri: Nauthron Academy, 3017 M.K., pp. 32-41.

On the thirty-first day of Thirdmonth, one hundred years after the death of Mealladh, the

Gods and their children came together to celebrate the day that evil was cast out of Luquatra.

In the weeks preceding, great feasts, songs, and dances were shared by the children of the

Gods and gifts were exchanged among the Darites, Ilumites, and Terrans. As they had done in

years past, Odar, Lumea, and Keos watched the celebration with much amusement and joy. In

the days preceding this one-hundredth anniversary, however, Keos saw the exceeding joy of his

children and proposed that he, Lumea, and Odar go down and join their worshippers in

celebration.

Odar, the eldest and wisest of the Gods, objected, deeming that mingling with the

merrymaking of their children would be ill-thought. Instead, Odar suggested that the Gods

follow the example of their children by exchanging gifts on that same holy day, the thirty-first

day of Thirdmonth. And so it was that the Gods initiated the first great Regaleus.

It was two days before the appointed day when Keos, deep in thought, approached his

elder brother. Odar, sensing his brother’s distress, asked Keos what vexed him.

And Keos answered, “It is the gift of our sister. What gift canst thou give a Goddess, a

woman who holds the sun in the palm of her hand? All things seek her pleasure, and she wants

for nothing; our sister’s joy is complete.”

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Then answered Odar, “Does not a mother rejoice in the gifts of her children? Yea, even

so, let us gift unto Lumea that which she and her worshippers shall rejoice in sharing.”

And Keos saw much wisdom in the words of his elder brother and asked, “Hast thou a

gift for our sister?” And Odar answered, “Nay, for I have not the skill nor the craft to create it.

But perhaps it is fated that you come to me this day, for thou art skilled in all things handicraft,

and it was my wont to present a clay flute to Lumea and her children, for both she and they

delight in song and dance.”

And Keos was pleased to hear these words, for he was indeed blessed with mighty skill in

all things t’rasang. That is, his skill was exceptional in all things born of clay and stone, of metal

and wood, and of blood and bone. And so it was that Keos and Odar agreed to create a joint gift

for their sister Lumea.

But when Keos sat down at his forge in Thoir Cuma, the God of t’rasang was beset with

doubt and hesitation. He considered clay a base substance, unfit for crafting the beautiful flute he

had envisioned for his sister. Instead of clay, Keos forged Lumea’s flute with the purest gold,

plumbed from the deepest veins of the world. When he was finished, Keos showed the flute to

Odar. The Elder God saw the changes that Keos had made, but he was not wroth and gave the

gold flute his blessing.

The day before the festival, Lumea approached her younger brother Keos and asked what

gift they might give to their brother Odar. And Keos remembered the wisdom of Odar and said,

“Does not a father rejoice in the gifts of his children? Therefore, let us gift unto Odar that which

he and his children shall rejoice in sharing.” And Lumea asked, “And what gift wouldst thou

give unto our brother? For he is wise beyond years and his children are ever blessed.” Then

answered Keos, “I have gone amongst our children in secret and observed their works, yea, even

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the works of the children of Odar, and I have seen a gift worthy of the honor of our brother.”

And Lumea asked, “Yea, what is this gift? For let us make it and gift it unto our brother.” And

Keos answered, “It is called a staff or rod, and it is given both unto the elderly as a sign of their

age and wisdom, and unto kings to signify their power and rulership.” Then said Lumea,

“Forsooth, we must make a staff for our elder brother, for is not a God a king among his people?

And is he not wise beyond years? And perhaps even his children shall wield this staff, and take it

as a sign of the blessings of Odar and his favor.” Thus it was conceived between Keos and

Lumea to create the staff of Odar.

Now it was Lumea’s desire that the staff be made of wood, for she took great delight in

the forests of Luquatra, in the scent of cherry blossoms, and the strength of the oak, and her

children danced oft in the glades of the forests. But when Keos went to his forge, he was again

beset with doubt and feared that if the staff were made of simple wood Odar would compare it to

Lumea’s golden flute and be jealous. Instead, Keos forged Odar’s staff with the richest silver,

plumbed from the deepest veins of Luquatra. When he was finished, Keos showed the staff to

Lumea. His sister saw the changes that Keos had made, but she was not wroth and gave the silver

staff her blessing.

Then came the day for the Gods to exchange gifts with one another. It was the first

Regaleus and, as they came to meet on the green hills of Ilumea, each of the Gods was filled with

anticipation, hope, and love. It was decided amongst them that Lumea would receive her gift

first.

Keos and Odar both stepped forward and presented to Lumea her golden flute. When the

Goddess saw the exquisite work of the instrument and felt how both Keos and Odar had poured

their power into it, Lumea cried tears of great joy. In acceptance of her gift, Lumea brought the

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flute to her lips and played the sweetest song the world had ever heard, nor has a sweeter tune

been sung or played since, save but one. She played with joy, passion, and life, pouring her heart

and soul into the flute, filling it with lumen in so much that it literally glowed and all those that

heard its music were captured by it.

When the song was over, Lumea stepped back and thanked her two brothers for the

wonderful gift they had given to her and her people. Then it was Odar’s turn to receive his

present. Laying her flute aside, Lumea and Keos jointly presented the silver staff to their older

brother. When Odar saw the instrument, he understood its significance and was humbled by it.

He took the staff in his hands, felt its power, and was pleased, saying, “As this rod bears the

strength of Keos and the love of Lumea, so shall I pour my own virtue into it.” And so saying, he

raised the staff above his head and called forth the power of quaire, yea, even the very spirit of

air, water, and ice. And when He was finished, the silver staff glowed with an awesome sheen,

greater even than the pure silver from which Keos had forged it. Then said Odar, “Even as ye

have gifted me this rod, so shall I gift it unto my children, that they may wield it in wisdom and

truth. Yea, let it be a sign of the blessings of Odar and my favor.” And Keos and Lumea heard

this and were pleased.

Then came the time for Keos to receive his gift. With much care, Odar laid down his staff

and took his place beside Lumea. Then Lumea stepped forward, opened her mouth, and began to

sing. And this it was said of those that heard her song: that the ear hath never heard such

wondrous things as sang Lumea unto Keos; and no tongue can utter the words which she spake;

neither can man conceive of the joy which consumed the soul upon hearing her song.

Now when Lumea finished singing, she stepped back and gazed at her brother,

beseeching his approval. But in the face of Keos there was none; neither was there joy nor

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laughter, neither life nor love. Instead, the visage of Keos was perplexed and heavy with sadness.

Then turned the sadness into disbelief, and the disbelief into cool anger. And Keos raised his face

to his siblings and asked, “Is this all you have for me, my family?”

And Lumea answered, “Yea. That is all.”

And Keos was wroth and said, “I have labored with great pains to give these gifts unto

thee, my brother, and also unto thee, my sister. I have plumbed the deepest veins of the world for

its most precious minerals, and labored with great strength at my forge in Thoir Cuma, that you

might take pleasure in the gifts which I gave thee. And in return ye doth give me but a song?”

Then stepped forward Odar and answered, “Nay, for this is no mere song, brother. I have

labored greatly in choosing its words, which are sacred words of power; and thy sister hath also

labored that its tune might bring life to the heart and light to the mind. It is our gift to thee, and

its value is beyond mere gold and silver.”

And Keos was enraged and departed in anger, estranging himself from his siblings. And

from that time onward it was said in many places that great mischief came from giving gifts.

Now Keos returned to his forge at Thoir Cuma and for a time his bitterness consumed

him and he refused to be consoled. And he retreated to the depths of Luquatra, plumbing its

depths for a metal that was more precious than gold. And in the depths of the mountains, in the

great chasms beneath the earth, Keos found a remnant of the substance from which the world

was made. And it was called aqlumera, for it was both fire and ice, liquid and metal; and from it

the Gods sprang, and from it they created Luquatra. And Keos took the aqlumera and laid it on

his forge and built for himself a hammer. And he called it the Hand of Keos, for he did pour

much of his power into it and did always carry it with him.

And it came to pass that many years had passed away since the first Regaleus, yea, even

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many centuries had passed away. And the people of Luquatra had been greatly blessed by the

Gods and became lifted up in the pride of their hearts and the traditions of their cultures, both the

Terrans and the Darites and the Ilumites. And there arose contentions among the people

regarding points of doctrine and of rulership. And they established kings and kingdoms amongst

themselves. And when Odar and Lumea saw this, they went down amongst their children and

counseled them and taught them to be peaceable and humble. And in so much as their people did

listen, they were blessed. And the flute of Lumea and the staff of Odar did pass unto many of

their children; and those that wielded the artifacts were blessed with the power of the Gods and

their favor.

But the Terrans were not counseled and taught by Keos, for his grief still consumed him.

And they became a warlike people, prone to much savagery and lust. And instead of crafting

tools and instruments and devices, they began to forge weapons and armor and did array

themselves with all manner of fine apparel and jewelry. And when Keos rose from Thoir Cuma

and gazed upon the works of his people and saw what they had wrought, he was not angered but

glad. And he became a fickle God, prone to blessing those possessed with strength and beauty,

willing to lend his favor to those who fought well and were filled with passion.

And it came to pass that many years had passed away, yea, even six-hundred years had

passed away since the first Regaleus. And it was seven-hundred years since the day that

Mealladh was cast out of Luquatra.

And on the anniversary of the six-hundredth Regaleus, Odar, in his wisdom, decided . . .

[MISSING PAGES]

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. . . used it to forge himself a new hand. And it was made of pure gold and was formed with great

cunning and cleverness insomuch that it appeared like unto his hand of old, save it was engraved

with his artistry. And Keos poured much of his remaining power and strength into this new hand,

and also his malice, for he had sworn vengeance against Odar and Lumea. And even as Odar had

sought the destruction of the children of Keos (for Keos called his abominations his children), so

Keos swore an oath that he would destroy the worshippers of Odar and Lumea.

Now this was not all, for while Keos labored long in the depths of the earth, new Gods

arose. And they were called the Younger Gods and came from the Breaking of the Hand of Keos.

And their number was five, and they divided their stewardship over t’rasang and divided the

people of Keos that they might each have their own worshippers. And their names were Sealgair

the Hunter, God of Animals; Garadair the Gardener, God of Plants; Cruithear the Creator, God of

Minerals; Clesaiche the Trickster, God of Shadows; and Tácharan the Changeling, God of

Chance. And also five new races spawned from the Hand of Keos; and they were the Dragons,

the Nymphs, the Giants, the Eidolons, and the Faeries. And from the palm of Keos sprang

thousands of other magical creatures with neither race nor parentage. And they were called

Keokum, for they were born of Keos and yet were not his children. And all of these things came

from the Breaking of the Hand of Keos.

And the span of the Second Age was counted from the death of Mealladh until the

Breaking of the Hand of Keos. And it was called the Age of Kings and spanned a thousand years.

– Kyartus Gairm, ed. & trans.

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Prologue: The Age of Rebirth

The woman was screaming. Sodar knew it would come to that. Few women, even those

with Aegen’s unique background, could withstand their flesh bursting open. Much of Sodar’s

attention turned to staunching the flow of blood.

“Extract the child!” Tosan shouted.

Sodar coldly regarded the Ancient, exercising his patience while his wrinkled hands

continued their grisly work. “I cannot. It has retreated back into the womb. The child will come

when it is ready, but the mother will bleed to death if she is not tended to.”

The answer seemed to displease Tosan, but the other Ancients nodded, satisfied.

“Leave him be,” Winsor crooned. “The priest is doing his best. He is no midwife but, as

ours have all gone to Luqura, he will do. Besides, this is not his first birth, is it Sodar?”

But Sodar had returned to attending the mother and was not to be bothered. The snowy-

haired Ancient nodded his approval of the priest’s focus. When the woman began to scream,

however, Winsor grimaced and returned to his conversation with Tosan. “Now, if I had to make

my guess, I would say you are more concerned about having a quick birth and making a quick

blessing than you are about Aegen’s health. Be patient, Tosan, and all will be well.”

Tosan opened his mouth to contest but Aegen’s renewed screaming stopped his tongue.

He glared briefly at the woman then bowed to Winsor and left the tent.

“I’m sorry about that Sodar,” Winsor sighed. “Tosan can be formidable at times, but his

heart is in the right place. Usually.”

“Pass me that cloth,” Sodar replied.

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Winsor laughed, even as he reached down to retrieve the bandage. “A man of few words.

Go about your business, priest. We will not bother you.” Winsor waved to the other two

Ancients occupying the room. “Ancient Grim. Ancient Dorstal. We are not needed here.” The

other two men followed Winsor outside, leaving Sodar alone with the birthing woman.

“Aegen…” Sodar began.

“Where is Tuor?” Aegen relaxed her grip on Sodar’s dark blue robes, fighting the

contractions as she forced herself to speak slowly. “He should be here for the birth of his son!”

Sodar smiled, glad for any topic that took the woman’s mind off her pains. He changed

the damp red rag in his hands for a clean one. “How do you know it is a boy?”

“I know. I feel it.”

The priest chuckled in spite of himself. If Aegen the Ilumite believed she was giving birth

to a son then she was. He knew when to trust his premonitions and when to trust those of others.

“Tuor is waiting outside, as the Ancients instructed him to do.”

“Damn the Ancients and their backward customs! Get my hu-aaagh!” Aegen’s words

morphed into a scream. The child was crowning again.

“Push, Aegen! Now!” The screams of both man and woman rose from the tent.

* * *

“Let me see my wife!”

Tosan sighed heavily, shaking his head again as if this might convince Tuor of the

impossibility of his request.

“The laws dictate that, aside from the priest, an Ancient must be the first person to see

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and touch the baby. Even before the mother. You are not an Ancient, Tuor, and so you must

remain outside the tent with the rest of the people. You know this. I should not have to explain it

to you. It is the same with all members of the community. You have no reason to be indignant.”

Tuor glared about the courtyard filled with people, staring down those who dared to make

eye contact with him. With the gothic walls of the Academy looming behind him, he appeared

imposing indeed. He looked into the center of the courtyard where Aegen’s tent lay and felt

conflicted, angry, even a bit guilty. He was indeed familiar with the customs of his people, and

being reminded of them only exacerbated his remaining patience. In Eastern Ilumea where

Aegen was born, women were allowed to birth in private and their husbands were expected to

stand by them. From mother’s first push to baby’s first breath. Aegen’s description of birth was

different than what Tuor had been raised to believe, but it felt right to him. The seven months of

marriage to Aegen and their two year courtship had done much in changing his opinion of the

teachings of the Ancients. Aegen herself had demanded that Tuor leave the village with her to

give birth alone in the nearby forest. Leaving Chaenbalu was strictly forbidden, of course, but

townsfolk were sometimes permitted to enter the Brake to gather firewood or hunt game. He

might have taken Aegen there, too, except that Tuor had not wanted to break the customs of his

people and had delayed in making the decision. Now he wished he had chosen differently,

wished that he had heeded his wife’s words. Now more than ever, he felt the need to stand by her

side.

Tosan was less than sympathetic.

“You have no children of your own, Tosan. If you knew what pain it was to listen to the

screams of your wife birthing her first child you would not be so adamant.”

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Tosan smiled benignly but still shook his head. “I too must comply with the laws, Tuor.

As an Ancient, though, I would be allowed in the birthing tent and would be given the right to

bless my own child. Thus the law remains in effect, even for me.”

The screaming from the tent grew louder and the crowd huddled closer, gossiping at the

the spectacle going on inside. Winsor, who had divided his attention between the other six

Ancients and Tuor’s heated conversation, finally moved between Tosan’s tall frame and Tuor’s

muscular figure.

“Listen, Tuor. It is almost over. The birth is climaxing even now. In a few moments

you...” Winsor cut himself off as the woman’s screaming stopped and was replaced by the cry of

an infant.

“Well,” said Tosan, “it’s about time.” He turned to Winsor. “Let’s bless the babe and get

this over with.” He pushed aside the large tent flap and entered. Winsor placed a hand on Tuor’s

shoulder even as the blacksmith moved towards the tent flap.

“Just wait two minutes, Tuor. Acknowledge Odar’s presence by accepting his blessing in

the way he chooses to give it. Tosan is acting as the mind of Odar now. Let him do his work that

you may better do yours after.”

Tuor clenched his jaw, hands balled into fists, but nodded at Winsor’s words. “Be quick,”

he muttered.

Winsor smiled and bowed, acknowledging Tuor’s deference. “May Odar bless you as

well, Tuor. Today is a glorious day.” He gestured toward the sky. “Odar’s face is clear and

Lumea’s smile shines down on us. Be at peace.”

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Tuor could not help but smile at the Ancient’s words. “Lumea’s smile, Winsor?” He

laughed in spite of himself and some of the tension went out of his body. “That’s apostasy. I

wouldn’t let Sodar hear you say that. Or Tosan for that matter.”

Winsor squeezed Tuor’s shoulder with his wrinkled hand. “Ah, but we shan’t let them

know about my little heresy, shall we Tuor?” He winked at Tuor and the rest of the tension that

had built up in Tuor’s solid frame melted away. “Besides,” Winsor continued, “The priest is

more cosmopolitan than he pretends to be. And Tosan has never manifested a strong religious

devotion.” He smiled. “And then there is the fact that I’m the Eldest of Ancients. That gives me a

little flexibility when it comes to points of doctrine, and I feel Aegen’s entitled to her Goddess’s

blessing on the day of her child’s birth.” He leaned close to Tuor and whispered in his ear. “Even

if her Goddess doesn’t technically exist.”

Tuor shook his head. “Don’t let Aegen hear you say that. She hates being patronized.”

Winsor shrugged. “We all make sacrifices. For example, I still don’t like the fact that

you’ve married an Ilumite.” Tuor’s mouth fell open and Winsor laughed, holding up his hand.

“But, I’ve grown very fond of Aegen during the months that she’s lived here. She’s not like

others of her race, and now that you and she share a child, I anticipate she will be less apt to try

and leave the village.”

Tuor’s cheeks reddened. “You knew?”

“Knew? No. But I suspected. Ilumites are nomadic. They always have been. Even though

I can see Aegen’s love for you is sincere, I doubted it would be strong enough to keep her here,

and you know we could never permit her to leave once she entered the village.”

Tuor sighed but nodded. “I know. That’s why I kept our relationship secret for so long.”

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Winsor’s eyebrows shot up and he barked a laugh. “Secret? Is that what you call sneaking

off to the forest to chop firewood when your woodshed is bursting with lumber?” Tuor blushed

further, but he did nothing to deny Winsor’s accusation. The Ancient scratched his gray-stubbled

cheeks and sniffed. “That’s in the past, though. You repented and brought your relationship into

the open, and Aegen has accepted our rules. I hold no contempt in my heart for either of you.”

He looked back at the birthing tent then looked Tuor in the eye. “In fact, if it’s no trouble for

you, I’d like it if you and Aegen moved into my son’s old home.”

“What? That’s…wow. Winsor, I don’t know what to say.”

Winsor shrugged. “Say yes. Edker has been dead for seven years and his hearth has been

cold for just as long. You can’t keep your wife and baby in the blacksmith’s shop. It’s too small,

and unsafe besides.”

Tuor stepped forward and embraced the old man. When he stepped back he had tears in

his eyes. “Thank you, Winsor. I would like that very much. I don’t know that Aegen will agree—

she wanted to build a home of our own, near the Brakewood—but if you would be comfortable

with us taking Edker’s cottage…perhaps we will.”

Winsor embraced Tuor again and patted the young blacksmith on the back. “I would love

to have you stay there, Tuor. Both of you. All three of you!” He stepped back and moved

towards the tent. “Now, if you’ll give me two minutes to get your child cleaned up, you may

come in shortly and see him.” Tuor nodded, and Winsor lifted the tent flap and stepped inside the

shelter.

* * *

17

Winsor squinted inside the low-ceilinged tent, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light

piercing the thin canvas walls. No candles had been needed at this hour of the day, but a dark

shadow covered the room. The mother lay on the birthing table, attended to judiciously by Sodar.

Blankets had been piled behind and around her, making a rough bed of sorts. Aegen’s screaming

had ceased and was replaced by the sounds of her heavy breathing filling the small enclosure.

Tosan stood in one corner of the room with a bundle in his hands. Instead of cradling it to

his chest, he held it out at arm’s length.

“Is something wrong, Tosan?”

The younger Ancient turned to face Winsor, his face white.

“The child,” he whispered gravely, “is a Son of Keos.”

“What?”

Tosan quickstepped to Winsor’s side. “The child,” Tosan repeated, lifting a part of the

blanket covering the baby, “is a Son of Keos.”

Winsor peered into the soft sheepskin blanket and was immediately struck by the piercing

blue eyes of the babe. It seemed strange that it had opened its eyes so soon, and stranger still that

they were blue—an irregularity rare enough that it was perceived as a mark of beauty and the

blessing of Odar—but Winsor saw nothing to warrant calling the child a Son of Keos. And the

child was indeed a son. The boy looked healthy and happy, though perhaps a bit tired and damp.

Winsor’s brow crinkled and he opened his mouth to contest Tosan’s judgment. Then the baby

moved, waving his arms in front of him.

No. His arm. One arm. The child was deformed.

“Keos,” Winsor muttered unconsciously under his breath.

18

“The other Ancients must be told and what is customary must be done,” Tosan hissed,

turning his back to Aegen and Sodar.

Winsor looked away from the child and gazed at the beautiful woman lying on the bed.

Her face was pale with blood loss, but all ready she looked stronger than when he had seen her

last. Her damp blonde hair, tinged with a hint of red, clung to her cheeks in sweat-soaked

ringlets. Her eyes looked up to Winsor’s face, pleading.

To hold her baby? Winsor thought. Or does she know? Has she willingly been a tool of

Keos? Is she pleading for mercy? The Ancient shuddered.

“Go get the others,” Winsor whispered. “Sodar will take care of the child.” Tosan opened

his mouth to protest but Winsor stopped him, raising a bony finger. “He has done it before. He

will do it again. It is us who must steel ourselves. The task ahead will be difficult.”

“Only if you do not believe it is the will of Odar,” Tosan murmured aloud.

“Since when have you cared for the will of Odar, Ancient Tosan?”

Tosan frowned, pulling the child close to his chest. “You doubt my devotion.”

“I doubt your piety.”

Tosan’s face darkened. “Piety is for priests. I follow the will of Odar, his laws, and the

codes he established for our Order. Those are sufficient for me.”

“May I have my baby now?” Aegen cried softly from her bed.

Once again, Winsor’s gaze turned to the distraught face of the Ilumite woman. He did not

know what to say. The last time Chaenbalu had witnessed the birth of a Son of Keos, he had

been a much younger man, newly called to the Order of Ancients. He never dreamed that, as the

Eldest of Ancients, it would fall upon him to pronounce the same fatal judgment.

19

“No,” Tosan stated dispassionately, giving Winsor a moment to gather his thoughts.

“You cannot see him.” Then he rushed out of the tent with the baby in his arms. Both Sodar and

Aegen looked to Winsor who sighed deeply.

“Sodar, you must follow Tosan.”

Outside, Tuor’s voice could be heard shouting above the elevated babble of the crowd.

The tent shuddered as quick hands began to dismantle its framework from the outside. Light

began to stream into the dark enclosure. Sodar and Aegen glanced about, watching the tent

collapse around them. Then the wizened eyes of the priest locked with those of the Ancient’s. He

knows what’s happening, Winsor realized, and he is not pleased.

“What is customary must be done,” Winsor pronounced dispassionately.

Sodar growled, stepping in front of Aegen’s bedside in a defensive posture. Rays of light

fell on his face as the segmented tent finally fell outwards. Aegen lay exposed to the crowd while

a handful of villagers began to separate the tent walls. Sodar tore his gaze away from Winsor to

look back at Aegen who was trying to cover herself modestly. The priest rushed to her side,

shielding the woman, then bent down to whisper something in her ear. Aegen listened then

looked up at him, frightened. The priest hesitated a moment longer then, reluctantly, stepped

away from the bed towards the crowd.

Aegen watched, terrified, as Sodar retreated. “What’s going on?” She sobbed in

frustration. “Where is my baby?” Her gaze searched the mob of villagers, looking for the

familiar face of her husband.

“Aegen!” a voice shouted from the back of the crowd.

The woman rolled painfully on to her side and looked in the direction of the cry. Tuor,

his arms and legs pinned by seven of the Ancients, was being bound with tough leather cords.

20

“Tuor!” Aegen screamed. She looked back at the face of Winsor, searching for an

answer.

“What is customary must be done,” Winsor chanted. “The vessels of Keos shall be

broken.”

* * *

Sodar watched from afar as the crowd lifted the mother from her bed, dragging her to the

feet of her bound husband. The screams of Tuor and Aegen mingled with the cries of the crowd.

“This is barbaric,” Sodar spat.

“It is the will of Odar. And it is just,” came Tosan’s equally passionate reply. “But if that

is how you feel, perhaps I should be the one that takes the child to the woods.”

“No,” Sodar snapped back. “The responsibility falls upon me. I will do it.” Tosan nodded

slowly, handing the child to Sodar as he did so.

“Be certain you stay and witness its death. The beasts will not likely come out to feed

until nightfall.”

“I have done this before.”

“So I am told.” Tosan smiled, watching as the villagers began to gather stones. “But you

were younger then. Perhaps you haven’t the stomach for it now.”

Sodar opened his mouth to respond but stopped, frozen as he watched the first villager

throw his rock.

Who was it? Sodar wondered. The baker? The chandler? One of the Master Avatars? He

bit his tongue and forced himself to stare into the milling crowd of townsfolk. He glimpsed

21

Tuor’s leather apron. Aegen’s long hair and round breasts. And suddenly there was a hail of

stones, one after another, as the villagers began to hurl their rocks. With a singular force, they

crunched into the prone couple. Screams rose above the din and were echoed by the chanting of

the frenzied crowd.

“Cleanse the filth!” screamed an old woman in a tattered shawl. “Break their bones!”

shouted another, all to the refrain of “Children of Keos! Sons of Keos!”

Sodar continued to watch in silence until a great thrash of movement brought the scene to

a climax. Then he forced himself to turn away, determined not distinguish Tuor and Aegen’s

cries from the rest of the mob. With his back to the spectacle, he faced the forest. Tosan smiled,

studying the priest’s face.

“The beasts of Keos,” Sodar mumbled, “shall consume the Son of Keos. What is

customary shall be done.”

* * *

It was night when Sodar finally returned to the village. The town square, which had been

so crowded with people that afternoon, now lay empty. The whole village seemed to be asleep.

Even so, Sodar walked the darkened streets with caution, sticking to the shadows as much

as possible. Ordinarily, he would have walked straight back from the woods to the chapel, the

two being so close to each other, but a Master Avatar had been manning the watch tower nearest

the chapel and Sodar was sure he would have been spotted. Instead, he circled around to the

southern side of the village and entered between the second and third watch towers. There were

22

only three, and those two were spaced so far apart that Sodar doubted either would notice his

dark form leaving the woods at this hour of the night.

Once Sodar entered the village proper, he steered himself toward the less populous areas

of town. He avoided passing beneath the large stained-glass windows of the Academy by

circumventing the courtyard altogether, but he still had a handful of streets to navigate before he

could enter the safety of his chapel walls. As he crept through the back alleys of Chaenbalu,

Sodar’s large and withered frame moved with uncanny silence and singular purpose, like a dart-

fish sailing through moonlit river reeds, hiding from unseen predators.

His passage was uneventful, though, and Sodar soon entered the church’s worship hall,

locking the door behind him. He stopped for a moment, listening for signs of intruders. The

building was silent. Satisfied, he advanced to the back of the small hall, unlocked the door to the

rectory and entered. Once inside with the door securely locked, he lit a candle, withdrew a

familiar bundle from the folds of his cloak, and placed it on the table in the corner of the room.

The child was sleeping, though it had taken some skill on Sodar’s part to keep him that

way: wreathes of duira root surrounded the child, cloying him in the bittersweet scent

characteristic of the plant. The babe was too small to chew the root—let alone drink it with tea—

but with enough of the herb, Sodar had been able to reproduce its sleep-inducing effects.

For how long though? Sodar wondered. I can’t hide him here for more than a few days, If

he cries out during chapel service, I’m as good as caught.

He had pondered the same dilemma in the woods while he waited for nightfall, and thus

far Sodar had only come up with one solution: the midwives would be arriving with the infants

from Luqura within the week; if he could slip the baby into the group the women brought home,

there was a chance the boy would go unnoticed. To do that, though, Sodar would need to hide

23

the child’s deformity, which meant…

“The Vault of Damnation,” Sodar murmured aloud. “The damn Vault of Damnation.” He

slumped down onto a stool in front of the table and pulled on his beard, cursing. He stared at the

cold hearth of his fireplace, mulling it all over in his mind once again, trying to find an

alternative solution. After nearly half an hour, he felt ready to give up. The problem was simply

too complex, with too many unknown variables. No legitimate solution appeared to exist.

Sodar looked back to the table where the child lay wrapped in a thick blanket, slumbering

fitfully, his deformity hidden from view. The priest sighed. He couldn’t give up. Not now. Not

after risking his own life to protect the child. Not after sacrificing…so much. The problem

needed to be carried through to the end, whatever end that might be.

Sodar took a deep breath and went back through what he knew: there were certain

magical artifacts that would help hide the babe’s deformity, but he wasn’t certain any of them

would be in the Vault. Yet he was fairly certain. In fact, if Sodar’s memory had not failed him,

one such artifact had been brought to Chaenbalu almost a decade ago. He was almost sure of it.

Even if that were true, though, several other factors needed to be addressed. For one

thing, Sodar would have to break into the Vault—no small feat that, but something Sodar

nonetheless felt confident he could do with the aid of a few spells. Once he had accomplished

that, he would have to find a way to hide the artifact from magical detection. All of these were

petty questions, though, when compared with the real problem plaguing Sodar’s mind.

Could the child use magic?

The priest bit his bottom lip and scratched his chin. Given that Aegen had been a Dionach

Lasair and Tuor had been a descendant of Breathanas, Sodar assumed that the infant would

possess some modicum of magical ability—he had hoped for it, in fact—but that wasn’t a

24

certainty. If the child took after his father, he would lack any affinity for magic. If he took after

his mother, though…

Yes. There was a good possibility the child possessed magic.The mix of Ilumite and

Darite blood often yielded children with such talents—country-folk called them Ildar—but such

couplings were rare, and their children rarely survived once their abilities were discovered. In

truth, the blood mix hadn’t been common since the days of the Halcyon Knights, and they had

been dead for over five-hundred years.

Sodar exhaled slowly and rubbed his wrinkled hands on his wrinkled forehead. He was

assuming that he could break into the Vault. He was assuming that the artifact he sought lay in

the Vault, and that the child would be able to use the artifact once he stole it. On top of all that,

he was assuming that the artifact’s absence would go unnoticed and that it could be kept hidden

from the Ancients. He was assuming a lot—too much perhaps. Nevertheless, he was confident

that all of his assumptions were correct and that, if he was careful, everything would resolve

itself. It had to. Odar would make certain of it. Else, what would be the purpose in protecting the

line of Breathanas?

The only other problem to consider was timing. If he had one or two weeks to prepare

himself, Sodar knew he could steal what he needed from the Vault without risk of getting caught,

but he didn’t have that much time. The midwives would be back from Luqura by the end of the

week, and the child needed to be ready by then.

“But am I ready?” Sodar wondered aloud. He returned his gaze to the boy on the table

and marveled at how much had changed since that morning. “Tuor and Aegen dead, and the last

male of the house of Breathanas lies before me.” Sodar’s voice cracked and he began to weep.

“Forgive me, Aegen. Forgive me, Tuor. Too many years have I lived a passive life in Chaenbalu,

25

waiting. When the moment of action finally came, I lacked the strength to defy the Ancients. It is

my fault you are gone. It is my fault your child will never know your face.” Silent sobs wracked

the old man’s frame. After perhaps another hour, he began to compose himself, drying his eyes

with his rough sleeves, soothing his tender chin, and disentangling the beard he had tugged so

fiercely.

“I shall make restitution for my sins. I shall fix what I have wrought.”

Just then the baby moaned as a yawn shook his tiny frame.

“And you, little one,” Sodar said, turning to the child once more, “cannot sleep forever.

And yet you must be utterly silent for the days, possibly weeks, to come.” He drew in a long

deep breath and exhaled. He knew it would come to this. He had planned to cast a ward on

himself so that he could enter the Vault in silence, but it seemed the child would also have to be

warded. He would have to place it on the blanket so that the spell didn’t draw its energy from the

child, but Sodar didn’t want to destroy the sheepskin either, especially with the child inside it.

Sodar looked about the room for some medium with which he could draw the glyph. He

spied the lit candle and plucked it up, ignoring the hot wax dripping down its sides. Leaning over

the slumbering child, he dripped the candle wax onto the sheepskin, tracing first a line, then

curving the line backwards so that it intersected its middle. He continued the curve, circling back

to where the line first curved backwards, and ended with a circle intersected by a line—or a line

intersected by a circle; he was never sure which it was.

He stood back and examined the rune. The lines looked a bit spotty, but there was no

break in the pattern. It would do.

But will one be enough? Sodar wondered. He bent back over the babe and traced two

more runes on the sheepskin. The first lay at the top of the boy’s head, and the other two lay to

26

either side. A triangle, Sodar thought, smiling. Those always hold best, and three points will be

more than enough for an infant. He was quite pleased with himself, especially since it had been

so long since he had prepared a spell. Ten years? More? The priest chuckled softly. Then, staring

at the pattern of runes, he held them firmly in his mind and spoke the ancient word for ‘silence.’

“Samhchair,” Sodar whispered.

The candle flickered. The three runes flared and the wax burnt itself up, leaving a faint

glow in its stead. After a few seconds, the glow faded, leaving the outline of three tiny glyphs.

Now to test it.

Leaning even closer to the child, the priest moved his lips to within inches of the infant’s

face. “Be still, little one,” Sodar whispered.

But the sound of his words died before leaving his lips. He could feel his vocal cords

articulating the sounds—could even feel the air resonating in his mouth—but all was silent. Even

so, the priest kept his head cocked just above the child’s head, listening. After a moment, he

recognized the faint chirping of crickets coming from outside accompanied by a rush of wind.

Good, Sodar mused. I’ll be able to hear the Masters, but they won’t hear me. He stood

straight again.

“I guess it’s my turn.”

* * *

Sodar crept back into the chapel, easing the door shut behind him. He knew he was being

overcautious—the ward of silence he had cast upon himself had been much larger and,

consequently, its area of effect had extended far enough to enclose the latches and hinges of the

27

doors he passed through—but he preferred caution over speed. That night, at least, his caution

had paid off: the theft had gone perfectly.

Sodar scurried between the rows of benches lining both sides of the worship hall, eager to

get back to the baby he had abandoned over an hour ago. In one hand, the priest clutched what

appeared to be an unremarkable empty green bag.

As Sodar reached the back of the hall, he mounted the steps behind the altar and

approached the door to the rectory. He withdrew his key and unlocked the door. After entering

the chamber, he eased the door shut and relocked it. He began to place the key back in his pocket

but then thought better of it. Instead, he opened the pale green sack dropped it into the bag.

Curious, he turned the small drawstring sack upside down and shook it. Nothing fell out. For all

appearances, it was still empty.

“For seven years I’ve wanted to steal this bag.” Sodar laughed at himself when the

spoken words never reached his ears. Then, when he noticed even his laugh was silenced, he

laughed all the harder.

I don’t think I’ll be needing this ward anymore.

Concentrating on the large glyph drawn across his back, Sodar disrupted the spell’s

mental signature and dispelled the glyph’s magic. The outline of the glyph disappeared in a faint

flash of light, leaving his garments unmarked and unremarkable, though perhaps more

threadbare. He turned to face the child lying on the table.

The boy was awake. His clear blue eyes focused on Sodar as the priest moved closer,

which only caused Sodar to marvel all the more. “You’re a bright one,” he whispered, relieved to

hear the sound of his voice once again. “That much is certain.”

28

Opening up the bag, Sodar stuck his hand inside and thought of the artifact he had

recently stolen from the Vault. His hand immediately wrapped around the object, and he

withdrew it from the sack.

The item was a silver arm, about the size of an adult human’s. Sodar placed it on the table

and stuck his hand back into the sack, this time drawing out a roll of black leather cloth. He set

this on the table next to the arm and reached inside the sack for the third time. The last object he

extracted was a small translucent stone wrapped in a thick leather thong. This too went on the

table followed by the sack itself.

Sodar rubbed his hands together, eyes sparkling, anxious to see if his plan would work.

Picking up the silver arm, the priest moved in front of the child and prepared to dispel the ward

of silence he had cast on the blanket. He stopped short, though, leaving the spell in effect. If this

hurts as much as grafting a real arm back on, Sodar mused, then I had better leave the ward in

effect. Otherwise, I’ll have a screaming child on my hands.

Hovering above the babe, Sodar drew back the sheepskin blanket and exposed the

infant’s deformed left limb. Instead of a forearm, the elbow ended in a tiny rounded stump that

wiggled back and forth. Grasping the child’s arm in one hand and the silver prosthetic in the

other, Sodar pushed the base of the silver arm against the end of the baby’s stump.

Nothing.

Sodar examined the silver arm closely, looking for any inscription or magical triggers

that might cause the arm to attach itself to the user. The skin, though made of silver, was

flawless. As a whole, the arm appeared perfect, as if it hadn’t been crafted by human hands at all.

That was something to be said for the Terrans. The quality of their work was always excellent.

29

And, Sodar thought, they don’t accept the loss of a limb as reason to give up on a man. The

Darites could learn from them.

Sodar turned the arm over once more, concentrating with his mind, seeing if there might

be a way to activate the artifact.

Nothing.

“Now, if I were a Terran, how would I . . .” He stopped, mouth hanging open, as the

answer dawned on him. “Terrans don’t use their thoughts or words to activate their magic. They

invoke it with their body and their will.” Pleased with himself, Sodar returned to the child’s arm

and re-attempted grafting the prosthetic, this time willing that the two might merge and become

one. When nothing happened, he waggled his fingers at the prosthetic and gyrated his body in

sinuous rhythms—or his approximation of such.

Still nothing.

“By the staff of Odar!” Sodar cursed. “How does this bedeviled thing work?”

The child looked up at Sodar, laughing at the spectacle of the frustrated old man. At least,

it appeared he was laughing. Still no sound could be heard coming from the blanket.

As Sodar’s wrinkled face gazed at the angelic features of the babe, he realized what he

was missing.

“The child has to will it.”

He slumped onto a nearby stool, scratching at his beard with the hand not grasping the

arm. This may not work after all, he conceded, feeling defeated. If the child had any magical

ability, it seemed unlikely that he would know how to use the arm. And if he possessed no

magical ability…well, then it was only a matter of time before the boy’s existence was

discovered. Then they’d both be killed.

30

Sodar stood up, resigned to the impossibility of the task that lay before him. He realized

then how foolish he had been to think that he could hide the child, let alone raise him by himself.

He concentrated on dispelling the wards set upon the baby’s blanket.

Nothing.

“Keos! What the hell is going on?”

Sodar dropped the silver arm onto the table and withdrew the baby from the folds of the

blanket. Immediately, the child’s cooing could be heard. Flabbergasted, the priest laid the child

on his bed and gave his full attention to the magicked sheepskin. The runes, though still visible,

had faded considerably since he had cast the spell, yet the ward remained in effect. He tried

dispelling the magic once again, but to no avail. He concentrated on the spell’s mental signature

and found that it had been erased. Yet the spell remained.

“It appears,” Sodar mused aloud, “that I have accidentally turned my ward into a magical

artifact.” He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Few magic users had the ability to create

artifacts, most of them Terrans by birth. To be able to create an artifact, even accidentally, was a

sign of powerful magic ability, and Sodar had never been more than a mediocre magician.

“Unless it wasn’t I who caused the spell to be permanent…” Sodar turned back to the

baby. The child lay on his back, one hand playing with his lips as he eyed the old man curiously.

“Perhaps you are more special than I thought,” Sodar murmured. “And perhaps…” He

danced back over to the table, swooping up the silver arm. “Perhaps.” He left it at that, afraid to

jinx the possibility that his plan might still work.

Once again, Sodar pressed the stump of the infant’s arm into the base of the silver

artifact. Then he waited. Minutes passed. A half hour.

31

“Come on little one. I think you know what I want you to do, but is it what you want to

do?” The baby babbled a string of disconnected syllables in response.

Sodar shook his head. “Well, it was worth a try.”

Suddenly, the silver arm in Sodar’s hand began to shrink, accommodating itself to the

size of the infant. Within moments, the arm had shrunk to fit the baby’s arm, perfectly matching

the size, color, and texture of its fleshy twin.

Sodar stared in awe. “By the Gods, those Terrans are good!”

Spurred on by this new success, Sodar returned to the table and picked up the translucent

stone and leather cloth. He raised the stone to his right eye and peered through its milky center.

As he did so, the stone shimmered and became clear as crystal. Gazing about the room, Sodar’s

right eye saw an image unique from his left. Everything in the room appeared perfectly normal

except for three things: the bottomless bag, the magical prosthetic, and the sheepskin blanket the

baby had been wrapped in. These objects radiated a swirling vapor of purple light, which seemed

to flow on, around, and through the three artifacts.

“That confirms my suspicions about the blanket,” Sodar muttered, taking the stone away

from his eye and replacing it beside the other artifacts. He looked at the cloth lying on the bed.

And now, he thought, we see whether this cloth of illusion is really what it claims to be. He

draped the cloth over the baby’s left arm and lifted the stone of true-seeing to his eye again to

reexamine the baby’s prosthetic. The view with or without the crystal was the same: the child’s

arm appeared ordinary. When Sodar slid back the cloth and peered through the stone, the purple

mist returned to envelop the baby’s left limb

“It seems this may keep even the Ancients from noticing,” Sodar mused, stroking his chin

and beard. “It also seems that I’ll be making a lot of gloves over the years.” He sniffed. “That’s a

32

pity since I’m not much of a tailor. And that roll of cloth won’t last forever. What will I say

when people ask why he wears gloves all the time?”

Sodar ran his fingers down the length of his beard and tugged on the white curls. Perhaps

it wouldn’t matter once the child was old enough. The dangerous part would be during these next

few months. A baby wearing gloves looked suspicious, and he didn’t want the Ancients realizing

how similar this baby was to the one-armed infant he was supposed to have killed.

The priest sighed. He would have to take his chances for now and, with Odar’s blessing,

hope that no one would be the wiser. That meant all that was left to do was keep the child fed

and hidden until the midwives came back from Luqura.

“Keep him fed?” Sodar exclaimed, slapping his forehead. “You poor thing. You’ve eaten

nothing except milkroot from the forest, and that was hours ago!” He stared at the baby,

marveling. “And yet you’re the picture of contentedness. Even after leaving you on that hard

table.” He laughed at himself then turned to address the child. “I apologize, my boy. I haven’t

been thinking clearly. I should have placed you on my bed and fed you before leaving. But that is

something we can remedy quickly. Tell me,” he said, a mask of seriousness, “are you fond of

goat’s milk, little one?”

The baby gurgled and smiled, waving his perfect limbs in response.

“That’s what I thought. Let me see what I can conjure up.”

* * *

“What do you mean ‘there are twenty-nine infants?’”

33

“Quit your screaming, Shiulag.” Elora took a deep breath, carefully pulling her silvery

hair back from her eyes. “I’ve counted them three times. There are twenty-nine.”

“And you counted them twice when we left the city, so we should count again.” Shiulag

bit her lip and began pacing alongside the covered wagon. “I can’t imagine how we could have

miscounted. The Academy only has room for twenty-eight. We can’t bring them more babies

than there is room.” The fat woman tugged on the long strands of her tangled, gray-brown hair.

“It’s an odd number, not to mention that’s another body to watch after. The three of us were

having a difficult time managing things when we thought there were only twenty-eight, but

now—”

“Which means that all this time we’ve been watching over twenty-nine anyway, so it

shouldn’t be any more difficult. Quit your screaming, Shiulag.” Elora glanced about the

courtyard, looking for something. The high walls of the enormous Academy stood off to the left,

imposing as always. Almost a hundred feet to the right of the gray stone foundation, Elora noted

a dirty red smear staining the ground. She furrowed her brow at that, then shrugged, ignoring it.

“Where’s Brigeade and the Ancient?”

Shiulag shook her head and pursed her lips, obviously upset about being cut off. “Ancient

Dorstal was about to tell the Academy we arrived when Sodar showed up. And then Brigeade

just had to follow. I think she likes that old priest, which is terribly silly since he’s old enough to

be her great-grandfather. Well, he doesn’t look it anyway, but I remember thinking of him as old

when I first met him. He said something odd that—”

“Thank you, Shiulag. Please go fetch them. Quickly. We need to decide what to do about

the odd infant before the Academy finds out. We need to present some semblance of order.”

34

Shiulag curtsied in her dirty brown skirt, grimacing as she did so. “As you command,

Elora.”

Elora shook her head as she watched the younger midwife totter off towards the

Academy doors. “Is it any wonder why that woman never got married?” she muttered to herself.

“Twenty-nine screaming babies and one screaming Shiulag. Thank the Gods the trip lasted less

than two days, else I’d have strangled the woman before we arrived.”

Elora circled behind the covered wagon once more and peered into the back where the

infants lay nestled amidst bundles of hay, cloth, and duira root—which Elora also thanked the

Gods for. “Should have slipped some of that into Shiulag’s tea this morning. Probably would

have been less difficult tending to twenty-nine drowsy babes by myself than it was listening to

that woman dither on all day.”

Shiulag arrived shortly with Dorstal, Sodar, and the blonde-braided Brigeade in tow. The

balding Ancient nodded deferentially to Elora then hurried to the back of the wagon to examine

the sleeping children.

“What’s this I hear about bringing too many children?” Dorstal queried as he began

counting. “I thought there were twenty-eight.”

Elora tapped her foot, fuming that this incompetence would likely fall on her. “Well,

either we miscounted then or we’re miscounting now. You tell me.”

“…Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. I only count twenty-seven.”

“Did you count the tiny one in the corner?”

“Yes.”

“The other corner. You see the chubby legs poking out of that bundle of cloth? Did you

get him?”

35

“No. So that makes twenty-eight. But where’s the last one?” Dorstal asked.

It was then that Sodar stepped forward, followed quickly by the third midwife.

“Perhaps Brigeade and I can confirm the count.”

Elora flung her hands in the air, gesturing toward the wagon. “Be my guest.” Sodar

stepped forward, poking his head inside. After a moment he spoke.

“Elora is right. There are twenty-nine.”

“What about you?” Dorstal asked. “How many did you count Brigeade?”

“Oh. Twenty-nine. The same as Sodar.”

“You weren’t even counting.”

The moon-eyed midwife shrugged. “What difference does it make? Elora and Sodar

count twenty-nine. That’s good enough for me.”

Dorstal sighed. “Fine. Then what are we going to do? The rooms are small enough at the

Academy as it is. Once the children outgrow their cribs, we won’t be able to fit more than two in

each room. We’ve never had a full complement of recruits before. There’s simply not enough

space to house all of them.”

“We could send one of them back.” Brigreade piped in.

“Are you mad or just stupid?” Dorstal clutched his temples as he turned to face the

youngest of the three midwives. “Did you even help deliver these infants? Twenty-nine babies

from twenty-seven different families all over Luqura and its surrounding villages. It’s the largest

batch you fools have ever brought back, and now you want to return one of them?” He scoffed.

“I know where you found these children. Even if you managed to find out which child belonged

to which home, half those babes’ parents are likely dead or destitute, and the other half would

36

kill you on sight once they learned you had stolen their children.” He shook his head. “We keep

and train every single one of these infants.”

Elora sighed, glancing between Brigeade and Sodar. “Stop badgering the girl, Dorstal.

She’s not stupid, just distracted. Anyhow, your yelling doesn’t solve anything. Where do we put

the odd child?”

Dorstal leaned against the wagon wheel, thinking. “I suppose a family in Chaenbalu

could take care of one. The cobbler has always wanted a child. If Greusik took him, perhaps he

could still send him to train at the Academy along with the others.”

Sodar placed a hand on the Ancient’s shoulder. “May I propose an alternative?”

“What?”

“Give the child to me. I am all ready well past my prime and in need of a deacon to take

my place when I am gone. I could raise him in my chapel, feed him, clothe him, and—if you still

wish—I can send him to train at the Academy along with the others once he is old enough.”

Brigeade smiled dimwittedly. “Oh, Sodar. You’re not that old.”

“He’s a walking corpse, Brigeade,” Shiulag chimed in. “He just refuses to be buried.

Definitely too old to be tending to children.”

“And yet I seem to find time to tend to all the spiritual matters of Chaenbalu,” Sodar

politely objected. “The temporal needs of an old man and one infant are paltry compared to—”

“All the more reason why you shouldn’t be burdened with a child,” Shiulag interrupted.

She wrinkled her nose, her face taking on an even sourer disposition than normal.

“Stop this bickering,” Elora scolded. “Sodar has a point. And it’s a tidy way of taking

care of our problem. Chaenbalu will get a new priest and twenty-nine Avatars of Judgment. So

much the better.”

37

Dorstal considered this. “Well, I know my father talked very fondly of the priest Sodar

replaced, and he had been an avatar before he retired.” He rubbed his bald head. “Perhaps it

would be good for the village to have a priest acquainted with the ways of the world as much as

the ways of Odar. The Ancients and avatars are not as close to the church as we once were.”

Dorstal’s gaze bounced from the towering walls of the Academy to the quaint chapel on the

opposite side of town. Finally he looked Sodar up and down, appraising.

“Very well. You can take one of the children as a deacon, but he must attend every one of

the training exercises for the other avatars. He will not be given any preference over the others

just because he has to divide his time between the chapel and the Academy.”

“That is only fair.”

“Then it is settled.” The Ancient clapped his hands together, standing up straight. “Elora,

give one of the babes to Sodar and start taking the rest inside the Academy. The children should

be waking up soon and I’d rather have them spend their time wailing in cribs than in our arms.”

“Actually,” Sodar interjected, “if it’s all right, I’d like to choose him myself. He is, after

all, going to be my apprentice. I should like to pick who he is.”

“Fine.” Dorstal waved the priest away. “Pick one and take him home. It will be some

months before any kind of training can take place. Be sure you get him walking early, though.

The avatars need to be able to run before they are two.”

“Don’t worry, Ancient Dorstal.” Sodar stepped up to the wagon and plucked out the very

infant he had placed there minutes ago. “I’ll give him just as much training at the chapel as he

gets at the Academy. He’ll be the best avatar Chaenbalu has ever seen.”

“For your sake, I hope so.” Dorstal turned back to the midwives. “All right, ladies. Start

moving. We’ve got a lot of babies to carry and the crib room is on the third floor. Brigeade, bring

38

up some of that duira root. We’ll need it. Shiulag, stop twisting your skirts and grab that fat one

there.”

The midwives and the Ancient busied themselves with emptying the wagon while Sodar

strolled back home. He gazed down at the babe in his arms.

“You need a name, little one. Something distinctive, worthy of your parentage.” The blue

eyes gazed up at Sodar, sparkling with intensity. The priest chuckled. “The Council of Ancients

believes you are dead, and so you were. But out of the ashes of your parents’ death, you have

been reborn. I shall call you Ainnevog.”

The baby laughed, clapping his hands together.

“Yes. Ainnevog will do just fine.”

39

Chapter 1: The Visitor

Reeve frowned, squinting at the shadow that floated at the edge of the heath. The hazy

outline of the dark figure seemed to creep through the dense fog, sending a ripple through the

clouds of white mist.

It was the second time in the last hour that the Artesan had seen the gray shadow, and he

was not happy.

Reeve glanced down at the thick bands of fog spiraling about his boots and unconsciously

shifted his feet, steadying himself on the semi-frozen soil. He blinked several times, forcing

himself to focus on the bracken in front of him, then raised his eyes again to the misty horizon

above the open field.

The shadow was gone.

“Nechraict,” Reeve softly cursed. He should have trusted his eyes. Now that he’d lost

sight of the shadow, he doubted he would get another chance to discover its owner. If he had

caught sight of the stranger walking through the mist-shrouded trees at the edge of the moorland,

then the stranger had almost certainly seen Reeve standing in the center of the clearing, staring

stupidly through the fog and mist.

“Nechraict,” Reeve cursed again. He should have known better. Should have trusted his

instincts.

Whoever the stalker was, Reeve reasoned, he was very good—and very cautious. The

man had managed to carefully conceal his signs of pursuit whilst uncovering Reeve's own

carefully hidden tracks. He had followed Reeve for over two weeks without being discovered by

the Artesan or his spells—over a hundred leagues: from the capital of Odarnea to the Northern

40

Vosgar Forest—and no man had ever accomplished that feat.

Reeve tugged at his frost-tinged goatee and further considered this unique situation. Few

people ever knew his whereabouts with exactness—such were the precautions one took when

living as an outlaw—and fewer still could predict when he might choose to leave the enclave of

the Dionachs Tobar in Quiri. Yet, somehow, every time Reeve tried to leave the bustling port-

city, he could count on a handful of men following him. Reeve considered himself a courteous

guide; he always took the time to lead the men through the twisting confines of Quiri’s narrow

streets and between its looming buildings. Once the men lost track of him, he would then

continue on his private journey.

In the past, there had been a handful of men that had actually followed Reeve out of

Quiri. Such occasions were a rarity—most often precipitated by the aid of one or more outlawed

magical artifacts, and such artifacts were easily countered; Reeve’s would-be pursuers generally

lost his trail within Odarnea’s outlying provinces. Only once in the last sixteen years had a man

managed to follow Reeve south into Greater Luqura—and Reeve had killed that man.

This new stranger posed a problem, though, Reeve realized. The fact that he had followed

Reeve so far meant that he was very good. It also meant he probably had access to powerful

magic, and that meant the man was also very, very dangerous.

So where had he disappeared to?

Reeve clenched his walking-staff tighter in his fist and turned his head to examine the

white-gray shadows surrounding the wide clearing. In all directions the view was the same: no

trees, no bushes, no landmarks. The only exceptions to this were the low-lying shrubs and

bracken that blanketed the clearing and the half-frozen stream that lay immediately at Reeve's

feet. If he had to choose a place to force a confrontation, this was probably the best he could

41

hope for. The patch of moorland lay just within the tree-line at the northern edge of the Vosgar.

The trees and fog would prevent others from witnessing what Reeve might do, and the wide

patch of heath left him room to maneuver and time to react should he be taken by surprise.

This last possibility seemed unlikely, though. If Reeve’s stalker had meant to attack him,

the stranger could have done so a half-dozen times all ready. To Reeve, this left only one

explanation as to why he was being followed: the mysterious stalker wished to know Reeve’s

final destination, and that was something Reeve could not allow.

He casually studied the streambed at his feet and considered his options. The water was

an unexpected advantage in this dreary landscape. Less than three feet wide, the icy brook had

once cut a deep scar across the otherwise unremarkable landscape. Now, however, the water's

current was so weak that Reeve despaired of even filling up his waterskin—not to mention it was

buried beneath a sheet of ice.

But water was water. If it came to a confrontation, Reeve preferred to have the element of

his God handy. Frozen or no.

“Damn Vosgar,” Reeve muttered to himself.

The Artesan had never intended to enter the old Vosgar forest, of course. Only a fool did

that, and only a madman undertook such a journey alone. But Reeve supposed he was a mad fool

because he had done just that. His original intent had been to turn east after passing between

Luqura and Banok, making a straight path for the Brakewood and his secret destination, but

Reeve’s plans had changed during the long trek south from Odarnea when he began to suspect he

was being followed. Instead of turning east, Reeve sold his horse in Banok and walked south into

the northern fringes of the Vosgar; the old wood was no place to put his trust in something that

might turn skittish, especially where so many old magics and unseen dangers lurked. It was for

42

that reason, in fact, that Reeve had chosen to come here, amidst the dark glades of the ancient

forest, to either lose his unseen pursuer or confront him.

Reeve sighed and examined the clearing one last time, hoping to catch a third and final

glimpse of the stranger’s shadow. Sheets of crystalline frost blanketed the hard-packed, post-

winter soil, and walls of dense, white mist hid the rest of the world—and Reeve’s pursuer—from

view.

He sighed and ventured a glance back the way he had come. Even the tops of the

towering blackwood trees had disappeared within the depths of the fog.

Reeve turned back to the white mist ahead of him and accepted his predicament. Nothing

stirred in the gray-white void, but Reeve was certain the man was still out there.

He rolled his shoulders back, trying to relax. As he did so, an acorn of an idea began to

sprout within his mind. Softly, slowly, a low mulling tune rose out of the back of Reeve's throat

as he hummed a half-remembered ditty to himself. The nervous tension that had seized his body

began to melt away and the idea gradually became clearer.

As he continued humming, Reeve carefully lowered himself down to the ice-covered

streambed, stooping until he was low enough to see the trickle of running water beneath the

finger-thick ice. He rose up off his haunches and hefted the metal-capped staff in his hands. He

stared at the frozen ice, consciously trying not to look back at the spot where the shadow had last

been.

Still humming, a strain of words came to Reeve’s mind, matching the tune to the song. It

was a sweet, lilting verse he remembered from days spent with sailors at the Bay of Quiri. Slow

and slightly melancholy. As Reeve sang the words to the song, his fingers traced the carved

runes running along the length and base of his staff.

43

“In the eve-nin, there’s a light there, next 'the shore upon the wave.

And the lady, she’s a waitin', while the light plays 'crossed her face.

Now that lady, she’ll be leavin', lest the la’d comes out to play.

For that lady, waits for no one, 'cept the moon an' Odar's gaze.”

Reeve repeated the last line of the verse, thumping his staff in time to the tune of the

song: “For that lay-dee waits for nooo one, 'cept the mooooon an' Odar's gaaaaze.” Raising his

hands over his head, Reeve brought the butt of his staff down on the face of the ice. The surface

of the frozen streambed cracked, throwing ice-shards in all directions. He raised his staff four

more times, successively smashing its butt into the ice until he was satisfied with the hole he had

cleared. As he knelt down beside the brook, he immediately heard the half-muted sound of

trickling water. Satisfied, Reeve laid his staff in the path of the running water. He unslung his

pack from his back and laid it beside the streambed, then he knelt down and cupped a handful of

liquid from the trickling stream. He drank slowly, sighing contentedly before wiping the cold

drops from the coarse black hair of his goatee. When he was finished, he untied the waterskin

from his belt and lowered the mouth of the deerskin bag into the current of the cool running

water. While the skin filled, Reeve bobbed his head and picked up the second verse to the song.

This time the tone was more jovial, the tempo slightly faster:

“Oh the lady, she's a fine one, with many-a song to sing-in-a day.

But once your blinkin', she'll be thinkin', to take her songs and float away.

Oh that lady, she's a dear one, beats her sailors when she's fey,

But then the lady, brings 'em home 'gain, once she's gone and had her way.”

44

When Reeve had finished, he pulled the waterskin from the stream, drank from it again,

and pretended to tie it shut. He took his staff from the water and used it to support himself as he

rose to his feet.

“How does that chorus go, now?” Reeve wondered aloud. “Dum-dee-dee-dee, dum-dee-

die-die... Nope. That's not right. That's the main verse.” He bounced his hands in the air, using

the waterskin to direct a choir that was not there, humming to himself all the while.

“Oh right,” Reeve said after half a moment of wild gesturing. “Got the words now.”

Reeve raised his bag, tipped it sideways, and rapidly traced the outline of a rune in the air using

the water flying from the pouch.

“Reo-amais-amaisect-amas!” Reeve shouted. The water glyph held its shape, frozen in

mid-air, consumed by the magic of Reeve's words.

Then it tinkled like broken glass and fell to the earth.

Immediately the thick moisture in the air froze, turning fog into frost in less than a

heartbeat. In a second heartbeat, gusts of wind carried the newly-formed frost across the clearing,

molding it around an empty space less than two-hundred yards away from where Reeve stood.

“Keos,” Reeve cursed.

It was an eidolon.

The frost-covered demon standing in front of Reeve stood less than four feet tall; two

long arms hung draped in front of its ephemeral body and its frame was hunched, obscuring its

true stature. The eidolon’s impossibly thin figure bordered on transparency, and all four of its

limbs were long and spindly. Its long, pointed fingers suddenly grasped at the frozen topsoil as

the shadow-demon realized it had been exposed.

45

Reeve had expected to find a human—an assassin or, more likely, another magic user—

and so he was caught off guard by this sudden appearance of a creature from the shadow-realm.

The eidolon was similarly caught off guard. In the seconds after Reeve hit it, the shadow-

demon began pulsating, furiously trying to return to the refuge it kept between space and

shadow.

But it was in vain: the same magic that had inadvertently expelled the demon from the

nether-realm kept it from returning. It didn't take long for the eidolon to react to this new

situation, though; by the time Reeve had recovered from his own initial shock, the shadow-

demon was streaking across the moor towards him.

With mere moments to react, Reeve discarded the possibility of drawing another glyph,

and hand-to-hand combat would almost certainly fail.

Then again, Reeve thought, the frost from his spell had clung to the eidolon's body, so he

couldn’t entirely discard that possibility. Really, though, there were only two options: using a

prepared spell—something Reeve preferred not to do unless the situation was truly dire—or

using the magic laden within his staff.

Reeve hefted the quarterstaff in his hands and counted the paces between himself and the

rushing eidolon, and he was suddenly very glad that he had possessed the foresight to lay his

staff in the waters of the streambed.

“All right,” Reeve murmured, the demon less than ten paces away, “let’s see if I

remember how to kill these things.”

The eidolon leaped, scythe-like claws reaching for Reeve’s face. Reeve raised his glowing

silver staff. Shadow and steel converged upon one another, coalescing.

Reeve smiled. “Scrios.”

46

And then the clearing burst into a ball of icy, white light.

* * *

It was two days after his encounter with the eidolon that Reeve exited the Vosgar. The

tall pines of the southern forest had gradually given way to deciduous trees and less forested

territory, and on the morning of the third day Reeve crossed the Brakeroad. He saw no travelers

while he was on the path, and within minutes he had passed into the southwestern fringe of the

Brakewood.

Gnarled roots and naked tree limbs snatched at Reeve’s boots and cloak as he traversed

the damp forest. The air was chill here too, though less so than in the Vosgar, and he hugged his

thick brown traveler’s cloak around his shoulders as he diligently ambled towards the small

village that was his final destination.

It was late afternoon when Reeve finally crested a small hill of loam and heard a

rhythmic tapping and clacking echoing through the forest canopy. He immediately changed

course, angling towards the origin of the unnatural noises, and was only slightly surprised when

a small clearing opened in the forest about three-hundred yards away, revealing the source of the

cracking sounds.

A tall, white-haired old man in a dark blue robe stood in the center of the clearing. He

windmilled a quarterstaff in both hands and repeatedly knocked the heavy stick against the

shield-arm of a teenage boy. The boy was shorter than the old man, of about medium-build, and

wore no shirt. His white breeches were thoroughly muddied, and his bare chest shone with

perspiration as he tried to ward off the older man’s blows.

47

The boy was not defenseless, though. His right hand periodically raised a wooden

shortsword to parry the quick flanking strikes of the older man’s quarterstaff. The boy's left arm

bore a round leather-wrapped shield, slightly larger than a buckler and also made of wood. Each

cracking hit of the quarterstaff brought the boy's shield-arm successively lower, and the boy's

shortsword was unable to keep up with the spinning and swooping stave. The youth was

obviously tiring, and Reeve surmised the fight would end soon.

As if Reeve’s thoughts had presaged the battle’s climax, the old man whirled his staff

even faster, raining down a series of torrential blows on the wooden shield. The boy cried out,

pulling the shield closer to his body, and fell to his knees. Holding the center of his quarterstaff

with both hands, the old man shifted his wrists and changed the momentum of his follow-up

blow, shiving the quarterstaff passed his opponent’s half-raised shield. The staff impacted the

boy’s chest in a sickening thwack, and the youth crumpled backwards.

Reeve half-stepped towards the clearing, concerned that the boy might be injured, but the

old man had all ready raced to the boy's side and was speaking in hushed tones. Reeve

nevertheless continued to stalk towards the edge of the field. As he came closer, the words and

identity of the old man became clearer.

As Reeve suspected, it was Sodar.

“...told you I wasn't going to hold back.” Sodar eased the boy up to a sitting position. A

large purple welt was forming on the left side of the boy's broad chest, and he was clutching his

ribs, still trying to catch his breath.

“And what were you doing with your weapon?” Sodar continued. “My legs were

completely exposed towards the end there, and you didn't even try to hit them.”

“You were hitting me too fast,” the boy coughed.

48

Reeve chuckled softly to himself as his ears confirmed what his eyes hadn't been

convinced of: the teenage boy was Ainnevog.

The boy had grown considerably in the six or so years since Reeve had seen him last, and

Annev’s bright blond hair was now a sandy shade of brown. His voice had grown deeper too, but

it still possessed the same winsome inflection that Reeve associated with the boy. His mother had

spoken the same way.

Back in the clearing, Sodar was still berating his pupil. He sternly shook his head at

Annev. “You're lucky I didn't choose a spear this morning. If I had, I'd probably have gutted

you.”

Annev seemed not to hear the priest. He rolled on his back, still clutching at his chest. “I

think my ribs are broken, Sodar.”

Sodar bent over, examining Annev's discolored chest. “They’re bruised, that's for sure.

And one or two might be cracked...but I doubt any are broken.” Annev winced as Sodar poked at

the injured ribs. “We can wrap it tonight when you get back to the chapel. Right now, though,

you've got some firewood to chop.”

“But my chest!” Annev protested. “Aren't you going to... you know.” Annev waggled the

fingers of one hand in the air. “It's going to be hard to chop wood with cracked ribs. Not to

mention painful.”

Sodar glanced briefly around the clearing before answering Annev.

“I can say a prayer for you, if you'd like,” Sodar said, “but I don't feel all that repentant

right now, so it probably wouldn't take.” Annev frowned, but Sodar just laughed, pulling the boy

to his feet. “Just grab the axe and get going, you whiner.” He patted Annev on the back and

looked at him seriously. “I want you back home before evening falls, though. Okay, Annev?”

49

Annev nodded sulkily, still clutching his ribs, and went to the opposite edge of the

clearing. A woodcutter's axe stood leaning against a black poplar, and a white shirt and black

glove lay on the ground near the axe. The boy shed his shortsword and shield, picked up the axe,

shirt, and glove, and walked back to Sodar.

“You're not going to change your mind?” Annev asked hopefully. “Considering how bad

off I am, I don't think I’ll get more than an armful chopped before dark.”

Sodar shook his head and laughed. “I have absolute faith that you’ll be able to cut five

times that amount and carry it back to the chapel before dark. Just be quick about it. When you're

done I'll put some poultice on your chest, but for now you should consider that bruise a lesson:

when your opponent thinks he has you beaten, that is the best time to go on the offensive.”

Annev dropped the axe, shirt, and glove on the ground. He carefully wiped at the sweat

on his face, back, and chest, and rubbed his palms on his breeches. He picked up his shirt. “If I

had done that, you would have clobbered me for sure.”

“I clobbered you anyways.”

Annev shrugged, painfully easing his coarse sleeveless shirt over his head. “It doesn't

matter. I always tire before you, anyway, so I don't see how any of this is fair.”

Sodar smiled, but shook his head. “You knew I had that advantage when we started, so it

was fair enough. You should have pressed me early and taken away that advantage.”

“But the longer we fight—”

“The more tired you get. Yes. I know. That's why you need to end the fight before it

starts. Don't give yourself time to tire and, for Odar's sake, don't ease into things. Start fast—with

surprise if you can—and end quick. Understand?”

“Yeah, I understand.” Annev picked up the long black glove and pulled it over his left

50

hand and forearm. He stared at it moodily. “I still don't think it's fair, though.”

“Life isn't fair.”

Annev shook his head, unconvinced. “You always say that. You know what I think,

though? You’re just lazy.”

“Lazy?” Sodar exclaimed, holding both hands to his chest in mock offense. “Me?”

Annev gestured at the old man’s staff. “Who else beats their students into cutting

firewood for them?”

Sodar smiled but his eyes were serious. “You knew the rules. First one to take a hit

chopped the wood. Those sound like fair terms to me.”

Annev shrugged and picked up the axe. “Maybe. But you picked the weapons. And I’m

no match for you when you spar with the staff.”

Sodar stroked his long white beard, frowning. “I suppose I could have just told you to cut

the wood, but I thought this was more sporting.”

“If you’d just told me to cut it, I wouldn’t be doing it with a pair of bruised ribs.”

Sodar nodded, his face now mirthless. “Perhaps I’ll do that next time.”

Annev nodded, apparently ignorant of the change in his tutor’s mood. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He walked to the edge of the clearing and tromped into a tangle of trees. “I’ll see you in a few

hours,” he called back, not bothering to look over his shoulder.

The old man sighed, shaking his head. As soon as Annev had disappeared into the forest,

though, the priest whirled around and held his staff in front of him.

“All right,” Sodar said, calling out to the clump of trees Reeve hid behind. “You can

come out now. I know you’re out there.”

51

Reeve chuckled softly to himself as he entered the clearing. He had tied his own

quarterstaff to the leather knapsack on his back, and he extended both arms to his sides in a

gesture of peace.

“He’s gotten a bit sulky on you, hasn’t he, Sodar?” Reeve said.

Sodar kept his staff raised until Reeve came closer, then he lowered the weapon and

began laughing. Once Reeve was a few feet away, Sodar embraced the Artesan.

“It’s been a long time, Dionach Reeve.” Sodar pounded the other man on the back. “You

shouldn’t sneak up on me like that. My nerves aren’t what they used to be.”

“You were busy,” Reeve said, releasing Sodar. “And I've always found it awkward to

interrupt someone in the middle of a beating.”

“Was I really that hard on him?” Sodar asked seriously.

“Oh, no. Not at all. Toughens him up. And that one needs to be tough.” Reeve pulled his

steel-capped quarterstaff off his back. “Sending him to chop firewood like that was a touch on

the cruel side, though.”

Sodar scoffed. “That’s your fault, you know. If I had known it was you spying on me, I

would have gone ahead and healed the boy.”

“People spying on you a lot these days?”

Sodar grunted. “Winsor died last year.”

“The Eldest of Ancients?” Reeve asked.

Sodar nodded.

“But what does that have to do with—”

“Ancient Grim died the year before,” Sodar interrupted.

52

Reeve puzzled this out in his mind. “Grim was next in line, right?” Sodar nodded again.

“So that leaves…” Reeve left the unspoken name hanging in the air. Sodar sighed and nodded a

third time. “Keos,” Reeve cursed. “But Tosan’s the worst of the bunch!”

“I know.” Sodar shivered and hugged his woad-dyed robes closer to his body. He glanced

about the clearing. “Come. We shouldn’t stand here nattering like this in the open. I know a

place where we can sit down and have a proper chat.”

“You could always take me back to your chapel,” Reeve said dryly. “I'm sure the

Ancients would love that.”

“Very funny,” Sodar said, his face bereft of amusement. “Come on. You can make up for

spying on me and the boy by conjuring up something hot to drink.”

This time Reeve laughed. “I’m not really that good at conjuring. The best you can hope

for is some watery tea, and it’d almost certainly taste better if you found some herbs and did it

the regular way.”

Sodar walked with Reeve to a small path at the edge of the forest clearing. “Fine,” Sodar

said, leading Reeve through the trampled brush and into the heart of the forest. “I’ll pick the

herbs. You provide the hot water.”

It was perhaps a half-hour or so later when Reeve and Sodar were seated comfortably

around a modest rock-ringed campfire. A small kettle was warming on the coals, and the two

men sipped from a pair of wooden mugs.

“This is good,” Reeve sighed, wiping the tea from his chin. “A little fruity for my taste,

but good.”

53

“That’s the bilberry” Sodar explained, taking another sip from his mug. “And the

ginberry. I think the anise balances out the flavors, though.”

Reeve smiled. He had set the walking stick down on the ground along with his pack and

sat on a fallen log. He set his cup aside and pulled his boots off one at a time, setting them close

to the coals. “I’d forgotten,” he said, stretching his toes toward the fire. “You like your drinks

sweet. I prefer the taste of mahtay.”

“Blech.” Sodar shuddered. “I don’t see how you drink the stuff. Tastes like bitter grass.

Give me honeycomb and milkroot every time.” Sodar had also set his staff down and was seated

on a large flat rock. He nursed his cup slowly, eyes watching the fire.

Reeve laughed abruptly. “I need to get outside more and do some real cooking. When I

saw you grab that milkroot, I thought you were putting witchtit in my tea. They look so much

alike.”

Sodar huffed. “You don't think I'd poison you, do you?”

Reeve smiled but didn't answer immediately. “Accidents happen.” He glanced down at

the tea kettle on the fire, wanting to change the subject. “Do you always keep cups and a kettle

out here?”

“Generally. I never know when I might want a drink, or when I might have company, so I

like to be prepared.”

“Strange habit, though. You don’t get many visitors out here.”

“That's true. You’re the only one in the Brotherhood who knows my location, so you're

the only one I can reasonably expect to pay a visit. I sometimes meet with the town blacksmith,

though, and some of our conversations are the type that shouldn’t be held near the village.”

“Is he that slave-trader you sent for a while back?”

54

“Reformed slave-trader,” Sodar corrected.

“Right. Reformed.” Reeve leaned closer to the fire, catching a mouthful of sooty

woodsmoke as he did so. “How's he working out?”

“Fine, as far as I can tell.” Sodar adjusted his seat on the rock and rubbed at his arms.

“He's asked me if he could make Annev something for his birthday—well, for Regaleus, but it’s

all the same to him.”

“Any idea what it is?”

“I've a notion, but I'm not certain.”

Reeve waited for Sodar to continue, but he did not. After a moment Sodar got up from his

rock, took his walking stick, and stepped closer to the fire. He poked at the coals for a long

moment before speaking again.

“I’ve been thinking, Reeve.” The dark-haired Artesan looked up from the fire, waiting for

Sodar to finish his thought. Sodar sighed and looked squarely at his friend. “I've been thinking it

may be time to take Annev out of Chaenbalu.”

Reeve shook his head. “Absolutely out of the question.”

“Hear me out. I've been living here for nearly thirty years. People are starting to wonder

why I don't—”

“Things aren't as bad as you think in Chaenbalu, Sodar,” Reeve interrupted. “Trust me. I

haven't even told you why I came down to visit you.”

“Trouble?” Sodar asked, his face revealing his alarm.

Reeve gave a dry laugh. “The worst kind.” He paused. “How many of the Dionachs

Tobar were there when you last left Odarnea?”

55

Sodar shrugged. “Inside Odarnea? Less than three-hundred, and most of those in Quiri

itself. Outside, maybe twice that.”

“And that was over twenty-five years ago.”

Sodar nodded. “Approximately.”

Reeve took a deep breath. “I think you’d better sit down.”

Sodar’s eyebrows furrowed. “That bad?”

“Sit down, please.”

Sodar's face blanched, but he moved back to his seat on the rock.

Reeve paused, choosing his words carefully. “From what we can tell,” he said, taking a

deep breath, “there are less than fifty Artesans left.”

“What?!” Sodar shot up from the rock.

Reeve looked up at him. “You heard me. Less than fifty in all of Western Daroea.

Perhaps the whole world.”

“But...that's impossible!”

Reeve leaned back on the log, pulling his feet away from the fire. “I assure you, it is quite

possible.” He picked up one of his boots and stuck his hand inside. It was still damp. And cold.

He grimaced and pushed both boots closer to the fire, then readjusted himself on the log.

Sodar, who now seemed incapable of keeping still, was pacing rapidly around the

clearing. “Fifty Artesans!” he cried aloud for the third time. “But there were almost a thousand

when I’d left—and eighty of those were Ageless ones—and now you're saying there are less than

fifty Artesans total?” Sodar stopped pacing and looked at Reeve. “How many Ageless ones are

left?”

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Reeve sighed. “Counting you…and me…” He ticked off two fingers then held up his

other hand. “Seven. That's how many are left.”

“Seven?” Sodar’s voice was barely a whisper. He slunk back down onto the rock, eyes

staring into space. “Seven ageless Artesans…”

“And about forty who haven’t made the ageless covenant,” Reeve added. “It’s a rough

number, though. A lot of the brethren have gone into hiding.” He rubbed his hands together and

wiped the frosty condensation out of his goatee.

Sodar shook his head. “Seven,” he repeated in hushed tones. He looked up. “What about

Morgenstone?”

“Gone.”

“Balhamel?”

Reeve shook his head.

Sodar’s body slumped and his eyes began to tear up. Reeve watched for a long while, not

wanting to interrupt his friend's mourning.

How many Artesans had there once been? Reeve tried to recall. Thousands? Hundreds of

thousands? He shook his head, shuddering at the implications. One genocide reflected another.

History repeating itself.

Sodar finally closed his eyes, blinked away his tears, and looked up. “You said seven

Ageless ones. What about the wanderer?”

“Oh. Well, eight, if you count him. But I never do. For all I know, he died centuries ago.”

Sodar sighed. “Right then. Seven.” He peered back down into the coals then looked back

up. “What happened, Reeve? Did the brethren go to war? I was certain I would have heard

something if—”

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“No, no war. Not the kind we’re familiar with anyway.” Reeve shook his head as he

considered how quickly things had devolved over the past four years. “If you recall, the last time

I was here I told you that the factions within the Brotherhood had become more divisive.” Sodar

nodded and Reeve continued. “About three years ago things got much worse. Certain factions

began threatening each other and then, a few months after that, whole enclaves started

disappearing. We didn't realize it at first because communication between the different groups

had broken down so badly, and by the time we thought to investigate, all of the Dionachs Tobar

south of the Kalej Mountains were gone. Dead or vanished.”

“But the High Council,” Sodar objected, “they should have noticed. Arch-Dionach

Kadmon and Arch-Dionach Levi are both from Tir Reota.”

Reeve shook his head. “They were among the first to disappear. No one realized it until

that year’s Council meeting. And the messengers we sent south to investigate never returned.”

“Monstrous,” Sodar breathed, shaking his head.

Reeve nodded, pushing forward. “We suspected external problems. An army encroached

on the highway, perhaps some Bloodlords that had crossed into Borderlund and made their way

south. But the messengers we sent to patrol the highways came back with no news to report. The

messengers we sent to the enclaves…they never came back.” Reeve stood up and used the hem

of his cloak to grab the handle of the simmering tea kettle. He poured himself another cup and

sat back down.

“That was about two years ago,” he said, blowing at the steam rising from his mug. “It

took another year for the reports to trickle through before we realized the problems were coming

from within the Brotherhood. And that's about the time the Faction Wars began.” Reeve leaned

back and sipped his cup of tea.

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“Faction Wars?”

Reeve nodded. “Last year, the Vanguards of Truth made a grab for power and tried to

eliminate the High Council. Many of the smaller factions banded together and put a stop to it, but

nearly everyone involved was killed. It goes without saying that recruiting for the Brotherhood

had stopped by that point, so the ones that died were never replaced. The brethren were too

afraid of each other to work together—too afraid that someone they trusted might stab them in

the back—so those that could went into hiding. I've been trying to coax them out so that we can

rebuild the Brotherhood, but there are too few who will receive me. The Brothers of the Fountain

and the other remaining factions claim the High Council is defunct and no longer holds

magisterial power.”

“Fifty,” Sodar repeated again, seeming not to hear Reeve. He shook his head. “Out of

hundreds of thousands. The true religion of Odar nearly wiped out.” Sodar stared at the low-

burning flames of the campfire for a long moment and then sniffed. “We’ve done to ourselves

what Keos and his Bloodlords could never do.”

Reeve placed his empty cup back down on the log and grabbed his boots from their place

by the fire. He stuck his hand inside again and tested the wool-lining: it was still damp, but less

so, and the skins were warm. He slipped the boot onto one foot then pulled the other one on. He

stood up.

“I'm sorry, Sodar. I didn’t mean to be the bearer of bad news, especially given your

special mission within the Brotherhood.”

“Not just within the Brotherhood,” Sodar corrected, his eyes locked on the fire. “What I

do is for the whole world.”

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Reeve stared at Sodar's face, slowly nodding. There were few that might agree with the

Dionach’s word—even among the Brotherhood—but Reeve was one of those few. At least, he

thought he still was; the notion of protecting an ancient bloodline seemed less important as the

centuries dragged on, and the magnitude of current events made the task seem petty by

comparison. He didn’t think it would be wise to mention that to Sodar, though.

“Right,” Reeve said, nodding more vigorously. “Well, a lot has happened recently and I

thought you should be aware of it. It’s also been a while since I came to check on you and the

boy, and I wanted to make sure he was still safe. I’ve seen that, though, so I think it's time I head

back. There's not much of a Council left, but some of the other Ageless ones think there may be a

way to salvage things and start again.”

Sodar nodded. “I understand, and I appreciate you keeping me informed.”

Reeve sighed. “But?”

“But I still don’t much like the idea of keeping the boy here. Something doesn't feel right.

If he doesn't leave soon he may get the notion of marrying one of the girls from the village, and

that will cause trouble when we finally have to leave.”

Reeve nodded. “I see. I can try and find a new sanctuary for you, Sodar, but it may be

another year or two before I can arrange to get back here. Can it wait that long?”

Sodar shrugged, tugging a tangle from his beard. “I don't think I have much of a choice.”

Reeve nodded then remembered something else. “One more thing. There was an incident

on the journey south I think you should know about. I was followed out of Quiri. All the way

down to the Vosgar.”

Sodar's head whipped back to look at Reeve and he half-rose from his seat. “What? How

did you let that happen? Who was it? Did you kill him?”

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“I killed it, yes. And it was an eidolon.”

“A shadow spawn?”

“That's what I said, isn't it?”

“You’re certain?”

Reeve gave Sodar a flat stare.

“Right. Of course, you’re certain.” Sodar pawed at his tangled beard. “And you say you

killed it? Good, good.” He scratched at his face, thinking. “Could that be connected in any way

with the Artesans disappearing?”

“I wondered that myself, actually,” Reeve confessed. “The thing is, I’ve been followed

before—sometimes by the other brothers, but more often by some fanatical Darite clergymen—

but this was the first time I’d been stalked by something supernatural. And I'm not aware of any

Dionachs who can command a shadow spawn—not even the Arch-Dionachs. Whoever sent the

eidolon needed outside assistance. And that means either a priest of Dorchnok or someone able

to command keokum.”

“A priest of Clesaiche, you mean.”

Reeve shrugged. “An old name for a young God. He goes by Dorchnok these days, and I

try to keep with what’s current.”

Sodar grunted. “A priest of Dorchnok then, or someone who can command keokum. But

is there a connection between this attack and the disappearing Artesans?”

Reeve shrugged. “Not sure. Whoever it was that sent the eidolon was very serious about

finding out where I was going. And if one of these factions is trying to kill all the Artesans in

Western Daroea, they would almost certainly have to find out where you’re hiding. But you’re

61

right. The surviving brethren think you’re dead, so there’s little reason anyone would go looking

for you.”

Sodar shrugged. “I guess it doesn't matter. The eidolon's dead, and you say no one else

followed you here. Sounds to me like there's nothing to worry about.”

Reeve nodded in agreement, but a sense of unease pricked at the back of his neck all the

same.

The paths of the forest seemed to stretch out before Reeve as he made his way back to the

Brakeroad. As the minutes turned into hours, he wondered if perhaps he had gotten lost. He

stopped for a moment in a dark patch of trees and pulled an opaque gray-black stone from his

knapsack. After some more fumbling through the pack, he also extracted a needle, a piece of

cork, and a cup. Reeve rubbed the blunt end of the needle against the gray rock and replaced the

stone in his pack. He poured some of the water from his waterskin into the bowl, stuck the needle

into the cork, and floated the cork and needle inside the cup of water. The needle spun and

bobbed for a few moments then resolutely pointed north.

Reeve examined the needle and frowned, realizing he'd been headed askew of his

intended direction. He realigned himself toward the west and angled slightly towards the south

so as to be sure he bypassed Chaenbalu entirely. He considered putting the cup and needle away

once he was done, but decided to wait until he'd left the forest to do so; the Brake had always

been a tricky place to navigate, even with a compass on hand.

It was just after Reeve had returned his knapsack to his back and taken up his quarterstaff

that he heard a soft crunch ahead of him in the trees. Reeve immediately dropped the makeshift

compass and wheeled towards the noise, his quarterstaff held aloft in both hands.

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The forest had gone quiet. Reeve squinted in the dimming light, looking for movement of

any kind. He held his breath, listening. The wind refused to blow and the chirping and clicking of

forest life had disappeared entirely. He counted to ten, slowly turning in place. The shadows

were thick and, though he saw nothing out of the ordinary, he felt as if an unseen pair of eyes

watched him. He swallowed hard and considered drawing a ward of protection around the soft

patch of earth he had stopped on.

The soft crunch came again, closer this time. Reeve whirled, raising his staff toward the

source of the sound. A spell sprang to his lips—and died. The air around Reeve had suddenly

frozen, becoming hard and inflexible, leaving no room for him to exhale or inhale. He clutched

his chest, his heart beating fast.

This is it, Reeve thought, his panic threatening to overtake him. This is what happened to

the others. He stumbled in a circle, his knees buckling as the light around him grew dim. Even as

he dropped to his knees, though, his mind was racing, thinking of a way to counteract the spell

that had entrapped him: he had a multitude of counterspells prepared for such an occasion…but

each one required a command word. Such was the nature of Darite magic; nearly every spell had

a verbal component, so there was literally nothing Reeve could do to escape the ignominious

death that awaited him.

As his vision began to blur, it occurred to Reeve that he might be able to counteract the

spell with Ilumite or Terran magic. The irony, of course, was that neither form was nascent to

him.

The staff, Reeve thought groggily. It’s a Terran artifact, and there should still be some

water in its glyphs. If I can use its energy to push the static air away from my body, to push away

whatever…

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And that's when Reeve realized: for the spell to take effect, it had to be localized on

something.

Mustering his last ounce of consciousness, Reeve rose to his feet and began to strip off

his clothing. He cast his knapsack away from him and threw his cloak on the ground. He kicked

off his boots, slid his leather pants past his feet, and tried to pull his woolen undershirt over his

head. He failed at this last task and collapsed back on the ground, rolling on the dirt of the forest

path as he struggled with the stiff garment.

Just as the blackness began to seize hold of him, Reeve pulled the shirt past his neck and

over his head then cast it into the dirt next to his face. His body spasmed as he choked on the air

that refused to move from his lungs. With a final burst of energy, he thrust himself away from

the woolen undergarment next to his head, rolled away from it…and found himself staring

directly at a small glyph painted on the seat of his tangled breeches. His eyes bulged. Reeve tried

to roll back the other way, but he was too weak.

I’m dead, Reeve thought. His eyes fluttered closed and the darkness enveloped him.

Reeve gasped as something pounded on his chest. The invisible wall that had constricted

his lungs and rib cage had suddenly, disappeared and a burst of stale air erupted from his mouth.

A rush of fresh oxygen flooded the Artesan's lungs, filling the vacuum, then he coughed

violently, expelling it back out. Reeve’s eyes fluttered open and closed, unable to adjust to the

renewed light. He coughed again, his lungs rattling, and began to breathe. When a femine voice

spoke from somewhere nearby, he scrabbled in the dirt, disoriented.

“Why did you dispel the enchantment?” the woman asked, her tone filled with malice.

The answer came a short distance away.

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“He must not die by my hands.”

The woman’s voice dripped with venom, but this second voice—a man’s voice—was

devoid of all emotion. Cold. Apathetic. Empty.

Reeve feared the first voice, but he was terrified of the second.

A second coughing spasm racked Reeve’s body as he struggled to sit up and observe the

two people speaking. Instead of rising from the ground, however, he fell forward and landed with

his face in the dirt.

I need to move, Reeve thought. I need to get my staff. Find a spell.

A small hand grasped Reeve by the hair and pulled his neck back. A thin blade of metal

pressed against his skin.

Oh, Gods.

The woman leaned forward, her golden lips brushing Reeve’s ear lobe. Out of the corner

of his eye, the Artesan could see the woman’s features were hidden behind a delicate gold mask.

“Bleed,” the woman whispered behind the unmoving, gilded lips. Her voice trembled

with ecstasy.

Reeve jerked as he heard the quick slice of metal against flesh, followed by a soft

gurgling noise. His hands instinctively flew up from his sides, clutching at his throat. When he

pulled his fingers away, though, they were clean.

Reeve sprang to his feet and spun to face the woman behind him, unsure what he would

find.

The female was short, barely five feet tall, with a tight bun of golden hair, red lips, and

delicate ivory cheekbones. The mask had been removed, and the body lay sprawled less than

three feet away from where Reeve stood. As he studied the woman’s face, he watched a gaping

65

red line appear down the length of the woman’s soft neck. She convulsed, spitting blood, and the

head tilted back to reveal a cut so deep it had almost severed the head from the body. Reeve

watched as the woman’s lifeblood seeped from the opened wound. Exposed bits of gore pulsated

rapidly, slowed to a flutter, then stopped.

Once the woman was unquestionably dead, Reeve shook himself and came to his senses.

He was standing stark naked in the middle of the forest, his belongings spread about him on the

ground. He recalled the second voice then and looked wildly about himself for signs of his

unseen male attacker.

For a long while, the forest remained dark and quiet. As Reeve continued to listen,

however, he noticed the faint sounds of forest life returning. He rubbed his throat and chest, and

a second thought occurred to him. He dashed over to his discarded knapsack, rummaged through

its contents, and pulled out a small, square piece of leather with intricate stitching running across

its surface. Holding the square close to his lips, Reeve uttered a single word into the night air.

“Sciathare.”

The stitching on the leather burned away, leaving the faint outline of the symbol that had

once been there. At the same time, the air around Reeve seemed to grow lighter, less oppressive.

He breathed deeply then, finally starting to relax, and held the scrap of leather close to his body.

Reeve skirted the pants lying in the middle of the dirt path and quickly gathered up the

rest of his belongings. After he had replaced his shirt, he put the scrap of leather between his

teeth, carefully picked up his breeches, and examined the glyph he had seen: the symbol painted

on the seat of his pants was arcane—not Old Darite, as he had initially expected, but some

perverse blend of Darite and Terran—and it had been painted with blood.

66

Reeve pulled a small knife from his pack and began to cut around the glyph. When he

was done, he slipped the breeches on and ran his right hand down his backside. A hole the size of

his palm exposed one of his fleshy cheeks. He rubbed at it, then shrugged and donned his cloak.

Once done, he reslung his knapsack, placed the scrap of leather inside a small pocket of his

cloak, and pulled the outer garment closer to his naked chest. Last of all, Reeve bent down and

picked back up the cup and needle that had fallen to the ground. Some of the water had splashed

out of the cup, but enough remained that the cork continued to bob, its needle diligently pointing

northward.

Reeve looked about himself again, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything, and

examined the near-darkness of the forest one last time. He could see little, but the whirring sound

of insects and the faint kee-kee-kee of unseen nocturnal animals comforted him. He looked again

at the dead woman lying several yards away and all the comfort he had felt evaporated.

The woman was young and—despite the rictus of death that had seized her—beautiful.

Her limbs were wrapped in tight-fitting strips of black leather, extending from the tops of her

shoulders and upper thighs and reaching to the bottom of her wrists and ankles. The woman’s

torso and loins were covered in a blue-black chitinous substance that looked like armor but

molded perfectly to her body’s shape, curves, and crevices. The effect was disturbingly revealing

and, Reeve admitted, not a little erotic. He grimaced and forced himself to focus on the woman’s

hands and feet. Both had been brushed with a dull gray paint, muting the white tones of the bare

skin. The bottom of the feet appeared to be protected by the same chitinous substance that

covered the torso, and the right hand still clutched the thin-bladed dagger the woman had held to

Reeve’s throat. The Artesan shuddered and turned away.

67

The man in the shadows must have killed her, Reeve mused. But why? Then Reeve

remembered the golden mask. He did a quick search of the ground around the body, but it was

not there. The man took it, Reeve surmised, but where did he go?

Reeve withdrew from the scene of the attack and examined his make-shift compass once

again. After a long moment’s hesitation, he reluctantly resumed his northeastern trek through the

woods. He knew that he should probably go back and warn Sodar of the failed attack, but Reeve

reasoned that the magician-priest would have returned to his village by now, and Reeve couldn’t

risk being seen by the Ancients and spoiling his friend’s sanctuary. Besides, Reeve reasoned, he

had all ready warned Sodar. What else could he do? The old man was capable of taking care of

himself and the boy.

Yes. There were many very good reasons not to go back and warn his brother Artesan.

The strongest, however, was one Reeve did not want to admit to himself.

He was afraid.

Reeve kept his back to the village and pressed forward. He held up his staff and willed it

to emit a faint blue glow. Using this light, he followed the bobbing directions of his cup and

needle and warily made his way out of the Brakewood.

68

Chapter 2: Testing Day

Annev drifted on the verge of wakefulness. The haze of sleep subdued the aches in his

limbs and chest and, for a while, he had forgotten what it felt like to be sore and weary. In his

mind’s eye, a slender, doe-eyed girl in a white apron flitted before him. She danced near to his

face, caressed his cheek with her lips, and whispered the nickname she had given him.

Ani.

When he turned his face to kiss her lips, she retreated. When he reached out to touch her

brown hair, she danced farther away, always out of reach.

Ani, she whispered. Wake up.

The image beneath his eyelids flickered. The soft, feminine voice transformed into an old

man’s urgent whisper.

“Wake up, Annev. You’ve overslept. You’ve but an hour before dawn.”

Annev rolled away from the voice, trying to recall the pretty girl from his dreams.

Instead, a sharp jab in the ribs brought him to complete wakefulness.

“Ouch!” Annev shouted.

“Shhh! Get up,” Sodar hissed, jabbing Annev with the butt of his staff again. “You’re

going to be late for class.”

Annev rolled onto his back and threw the mound of blankets off his body. He stretched,

rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he did so, and inhaled the earthy smell of sweat mixed with

straw, dirt, and—of all things—cinnamon. He wrinkled his nose, then sat up and began to yawn.

After several more stretches, he focused his bleary eyes on the features of the dimly lit room.

With the windows shuttered, the only light he could see came from a guttering candle just

69

outside his bedroom door. Inside, the room was sparsely furnished. The straw pallet Annev slept

on took up the side of the room farthest from the door. Between the door and the pallet stood a

small table and chair and an oak chest filled with clothes. Annev looked up and saw Sodar

standing at the pallet’s edge, his stick poised for another poke.

“I’m up! I’m up!” Annev protested, springing from his bed. He rubbed at his naked arms,

shivering. “It’s freezing!”

“It’s still winter,” Sodar blustered.

“For one more day.”

“And you’re in your small clothes,” Sodar added. “Now throw a tunic on and get moving.

You’ll have to skip dusting the chapel today. And I sincerely doubt you’ll have time to wash

yourself before class.”

Annev grinned in spite of the chill and dashed over to his clothes chest. “I’ll have time,”

he said as he flipped open the lid and pulled out a white tunic and matching pair of breeches. He

pulled the tunic over his head while Sodar continued talking at him.

“Hurry and bring the water in, then light the hearth and get the kettle boiling so I can

make some tea. When you’re done with that—”

“I know, I know,” Annev interrupted, pulling on his breeches. “Skywater, lightfire,

earthblood. Bring in the water, light the fire, fetch the game and clean the chapel. Same thing

every day.”

“Almost every day,” Sodar corrected. When Annev looked up, Sodar caught his eye.

“Today is testing day.” The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

Annev nodded, his face suddenly solemn. “I haven’t forgotten.”

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Sodar nodded. “Good. Hurry up then. I’ll get your waterskins ready. As soon as you

leave this room I’m starting the count.” The priest turned and left, leaving Annev to put on his

shoes and mull through his thoughts. He sat down at the table and pulled on his soft leather

boots.

Testing day, Annev thought, pulling tight on the laces. And not just any testing day.

Tomorrow would be Regaleus. Whoever won today’s test would carry the honor throughout the

holiday weekend. He shook his head and sighed.

For over three years, the Masters at the Academy had held a test on the thirtieth of every

month to see who among Annev’s classmates was worthy to advance from the rank of Acolyte of

Faith to that of Avatar of Judgment. Only the overall winner would be allowed to advance from

acolyte to avatar, but after nearly thirty competitions, most of Annev’s classmates had earned the

coveted rank.

Most, but still not all. The catch was that becoming an avatar didn’t disqualify the

winners from having to participate in the next month’s test. So the winners continued competing

against the losers, and the boys who had all ready won the competition continued winning each

month’s test, adding to their own prestige and earning further respect from the Ancients and

Master Avatars. Every few months, an acolyte succeeded in beating the odds and earned his

avatar title, but this only diminished the acolyte pool and made those boys’ chances of winning

more remote.

At present, Annev was one of three boys who had not yet earned their avatar titles; the

other two were a skinny youth named Therin and a smaller, chubby boy named Titus. Of the

three, all were physically adept—it was impossible not to be, given the rigorous training of the

Master Avatars—but, unlike Annev, the other two boys tended not to excel in physical

71

challenges. They were, however, smart and good-natured, and over the last year they had all

become fast friends. As the other avatars fought amongst themselves to see who could win the

competition for the second, third, or even fourth time, Annev, Therin, and Titus worked together

so that one of them might gain his avatar title.

Even so, only one person could win the competitions, and Annev prayed every month

that it would be him.

When he had finished dressing, Annev entered the kitchen. Sodar stood next to the

fireplace holding a pair of heavy, leather water bags. He tossed the bags at Annev, who caught

them instinctively. “One,” the priest began. “Two…three…”

Before Sodar could count to four, Annev was leaping through the open door of the

kitchen, racing past the rows of benches in the chapel, and flinging open the doors to the outside.

At the threshold of the chapel, he stumbled in the near darkness. Before he could fall to one

knee, he righted himself and sprinted towards the well at center of the town.

The routine was the same every morning. Annev would rush to the well at the center of

the village and hurry back with as much water as he could carry. Meanwhile, Sodar would sit

serenely at the chapel, counting each second it took for Annev to return with the water. The

exercise was supposed to complement the training Annev received at the Academy, but for the

first five years Annev considered it little more than a grueling chore. He complained long enough

that Sodar finally decided to make a game of the whole experience.

“You bring me back enough water to fill this jug,” Sodar said, indicating a large clay pot

in the corner of the kitchen. “See if you can fill it before I count to ten-thousand.”

“What do I get if I do?” a cheeky, thirteen year-old Annev had asked.

“You get to drink it.”

72

Annev’s brow furrowed. “That’s stupid. I can do that now.”

“Not any more, you can’t.” He waited for his words to sink in.

“You’re not going to let me drink our water?” Annev exclaimed, incredulous. “The water

that I bring you? The water that I have to carry?”

Sodar smiled. “I think you’re catching on.”

And he hadn’t been kidding either. The day after Sodar proposed his little game, Annev

had deliberately slowed his pace, taking his time on the way back to the chapel. He had been

carrying the water in buckets back then, so he had rationalized that by walking slowly he would

spill less water and not have to make any second trips to the well. He had succeeded in that

respect—he had managed to fill the water jug to overflowing after the first trip—but Sodar’s

count had also reached twelve-thousand.

After filling the clay pot, Annev’s throat had been parched and he had ventured to scoop

out a ladle of water. In a flash, Sodar’s staff had come swinging down on Annev’s hand,

knocking the ladle across the room.

“Blood and ashes!” Annev cursed, rubbing his bruised hand. “Why the hell did you do

that?”

Sodar picked up the ladle from the ground, unperturbed. “You know exactly why I did

that. Rules are rules. No water from the jug.” And that had been that. Annev hadn’t been allowed

any water to drink, nor any water to wash his face or hands. He left early that morning—thirsty

and stinking—just so he could stop by the village well and draw up a few handfuls of water

before his morning class.

He was never late again.

73

As Annev sprinted in the pre-dawn light, he carefully wound the thick leather sling

around his neck and draped the empty water bags behind his back. Once they were secure, he

picked up speed and flew like an arrow toward the well at the center of the town.

The bags had been Annev’s idea, one he was personally proud of. After months of

blisters and a few times when he had tripped and nearly spilled the buckets, Annev spoke with

the town tanner Elyas and asked how he could make a waterproof bag. By the end of the week,

the bags had been made and Annev was bringing the water home before Sodar’s count could

reach nine-thousand.

“Well done,” Sodar said after the second week of bringing the water home early. “Let’s

see if you can fill the jug before I get to eight-thousand.”

And so it went. Year after year. Each time Annev found a way to improve his time, Sodar

lowered the cut-off for his count. When Annev became quicker at drawing the water from the

well, Sodar dropped his count to seven-thousand. When Annev’s endurance improved, he

dropped his count to sixty-five-hundred. When Annev finally mastered gliding across the ground

without losing energy jostling the water bags, Sodar dropped his count to six-thousand.

Annev did his own counting when he reached the well. After unwinding the bags from

his neck and hanging both ends in front of his chest, he gave a swift kick to the lockbar holding

the handcrank in place and listened as the bucket tumbled to the watery depths below. Once he

heard it splash, he slapped the handcrank and began to wind.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.” After nineteen solid cranks, the bucket came

rising out of the darkness. Annev dropped the lockbar in place, reached over the edge of the well,

and submerged one end of his sling in the bucket. Once the bag at the end of his sling had filled

with water, he cinched it tight, kicked out the lockbar once more, and sent the bucket spiraling

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back down into the darkness. Somewhere between the seventh and eighth turn of the crank,

though, something on the other side of the village square caught Annev’s eye. He glanced up just

as a white apron and yellow dress ducked into Greusik’s cobbler. He stopped his count.

Had someone been spying on him? It couldn’t have been Greusik’s wife—she didn’t own

anything more colorful than the earthy red dress she wore to chapel—but it might have been one

of the cobbler’s patrons. A young woman perhaps?

Annev shook his head, suddenly realizing he had abandoned his errand. In a burst of

speed, he spun the handcrank eleven more times, dropped the lockbar in place, and refilled his

second water bag. He glanced once more at the cobbler’s door, hoping for another glimpse of the

girl—if it was a girl—then spun on his heels and raced back to Sodar’s chapel.

The return trip was much slower, but Annev found that if he counted his paces as he ran,

he was able to keep a steady pace and was less likely to stumble. With the bags full of water, it

took nearly six-hundred-sixty paces to run from the well at the center of village to Sodar’s chapel

at the edge of the forest.

The layout of the church and rectory was very simple. The front doors opened directly

into the chapel’s meeting room, a space that, while large enough to house all of Chaenbalu’s

worshippers, was much smaller than the cavernous naves found in traditional Darite chapels. At

the back of the meeting room, just behind the raised dais and pulpit, a door opened directly into

the rectory proper. Like the chapel, the space remained humbly practical: the door opened

directly into Sodar’s quaint kitchen, with the left door of the kitchen leading directly to Sodar’s

private quarters and the door to the right entering into Annev’s tiny sleeping room.

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As Annev entered the meeting hall, he heard the echoing counts of his mentor coming

from the rectory: “Five-thousand-nine-hundred-sixty-three. Five-thousand-nine-hundred-sixty-

four…”

“I’m here!” Annev gasped as he burst into the kitchen and unslung the water bags from

his shoulders. “You can stop counting.”

Sodar shook his head, pointing a finger at the empty clay pot in the corner of the room.

“Five-thousand-nine-hundred-sixty-five. Five-thousand-nine-hundred-sixty-six.”

Annev groaned even as he hobbled over to the large earthenware jar and began pouring

the water from his bags into the clay pot.

“Five-thousand-nine-hundred-seventy-one,” Sodar concluded as Annev tossed the empty

water bags on the ground and slumped to the floor. ‘You’re getting slower, Annev. Last week

you never let me get to five-thousand-seven-hundred-fifty.”

In spite of the pain stitching the side of his chest, Annev found himself smiling. “Yeah.”

He laughed between gasps of air. “I got held up.”

“Doing what?”

“I thought I saw Myjun at the cobbler’s house.”

“Mmm,” Sodar hummed, tugging on his beard. “That would do it I suppose.” He swept

his blue robes to the side and squatted down beside Annev. “And was it her?”

“I don’t know. I think so. She ducked into the shop just as I was filling the waterskins.”

Sodar nodded, clapped his hands together, and stood. “And what would your headmaster

say if he saw you pining after his daughter? Hmm?” He grabbed the wooden ladle from above

the fireplace mantle and began spooning water from the clay jug into the kettle hanging over the

hearth.

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Annev eased himself into a chair, finally able to catch his breath. “Ancient Tosan,”

Annev said, emphasizing the honorific, “can take a flying piss off a rolling bread bun.”

“Annev!” Sodar spun from the water jug, sloshing a ladle of water across the floor.

“Tosan is the Eldest of Ancients and Headmaster of the Academy. You will respect him as

such.”

“I called him Ancient,” Annev protested mildly. He chuckled softly to himself until he

looked up at Sodar. The priest’s eyes were as cold as ice.

“Sorry, Sodar. I just…I’m frustrated. That’s all. Nervous about testing day today.”

Sodar nodded. “I’ll let it go. Just this once.” He turned back to spooning water from the

clay jar and, as he did so, Annev thought he heard a suppressed bark of laughter followed by the

words ‘rolling bread bun.’ He smiled to himself.

Once Sodar had finished filling the kettle, Annev borrowed the ladle and took several

long gulps of water from the clay pot. When he was finished, he replaced the ladle on the mantle

and left to gather firewood from the training shed abutting the chapel. He brought the logs into

the kitchen, took a piece of flint and a small knife from the kitchen table, and set about building a

fire in the fireplace. While he did that, Sodar moved about the kitchen humming to himself,

dropping first a handful of dry tea leaves into the kettle, then a bundle of cinnamon sticks, then

another handful of ground chicory root, and so on and so forth, until he was apparently satisfied

with the concoction brewing over the hearth.

When Annev finished building the fire, he dusted himself off and moved to exit through

the back door of the kitchen.

“Hold up,” Sodar said, stopping Annev at the door. “When you go to check the traps, be

sure to spring all the ones that haven’t been set off yet.”

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“But not the bird traps,” Annev amended.

“No. The bird traps, too. ‘No beast, nor fish, nor fowl shalt thou eat on mine holy day.’”

Annev raised an eyebrow at this. “We eat fish and fowl every Seventhday.”

“But tomorrow is Regaleus, and that makes it an extra special holy day.”

Annev shrugged. “All right. Spring all the traps. Anything else?”

“Yes,” Sodar said, idly poking at the leaves floating at the top of the tea kettle. “Once the

traps are done, you can skip chopping more firewood. We have enough in the training shed to

last us through the weekend, and I’d rather you get back early.”

“I still have plenty of time to get to class.”

“Not if you plan to wash that face of yours. Next to that white tunic your skin looks like

dung.”

Annev rubbed his hand along his cheek. There was definitely dirt there, although he

wasn’t sure if it came from his fingertips or his face. “All right,” Annev said. “I’ll hurry back.”

Then he ran out the back door of the rectory before Sodar could ask him to do anything else.

Like empty the chamber pot in the woodshed, Annev thought as he dashed into the

darkened structure.

The door at the back of the kitchen had once led directly outside, but as Annev had grown

older Sodar had constructed a make-shift wood enclosure that extended far beyond the back door

and encompassed a space large enough for Annev to practice his training. The wooodshed also

housed a variety of mock-weapons, a training dummy, a stock of firewood, an underground root

cellar, and a small privy consisting of a wood box suspended over a chamber pot.

As Annev entered into the darkened room, he snatched his game bag and hunting knife

from a peg on the wall, then eyed the chamber pot near the door and began to slow down.

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Feeling guilty, he walked over to the wood box and lifted it off the brass pot. He picked up the

chamber pot—holding it at arm’s length as he did so—and exited through the back door of the

shed. Once outside, he sprinted the last quarter-mile to the edge of the woods and flung the

contents of the pot into a dark copse of trees he used specifically for that purpose. He then

dropped the pot and stalked into the woods.

Twenty minutes later, Annev had disarmed the traps he had set the previous day and had

a small booty of animals to show for his efforts, including one pheasant, two fat squirrels, and an

even fatter rabbit. He had found a wild piglet as well, but the animal had been snared alive and

he had decided to set it free. He probably could have sold the extra meat to the butcher, but he

didn’t like killing animals with his bare hands. He was good with a weapon—knife, sword, axe,

or bow, it made no difference—but he preferred to let the traps do the killing for him.

With his game bag full and the empty chamber pot under his arm, Annev sprinted back to

the training shed. Once inside, he replaced the pot in the privy and brought the game bag inside

the house.

“Did you empty the chamber pot?” Sodar asked as soon as Annev stepped inside the

kitchen.

“Yes,” Annev said, suddenly glad he hadn’t skipped the chore.

“Good. I filled the basin with water. Go ahead and wash your hands and face. When

you’re done you can have some bread and then we’ll test your magic.”

Annev groaned even as he hung his game bag on the back of the chair and moved toward

the water basin. “We did that last week.”

“We should be doing it every day,” Sodar lectured, spooning hot water from the kettle

into a small ceramic mug. “But I’ve been too busy with my translation of the Speur Dún

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manuscript.” He sighed, pulled his long beard to his chest, and took a tentative sip from the mug.

“I mean to be better about that. Besides, with Regaleus being so close, you should have better

luck accessing your magic.”

“So you say. You also say my body’s magical affinity is higher in the mornings.” Annev

vigorously rubbed his hands in the cold water then splashed his face.

“Exactly.” Sodar handed Annev a small towel and the boy dabbed his face with it.

“Except that I don’t have any magical affinity,” Annev spat, tossing the towel back to

Sodar. “If I did, we would have seen it by now. You said so yourself. ‘The ability to control

one’s magic comes just before the onset of puberty.’ Well, I’m well into puberty and still no sign

of magic.”

Sodar harrumphed and hung the towel on a peg near the basin. “You’re different, Annev.

And you can use magic. You’re using it right now.” He gestured at Annev’s left arm. “You’ve

been using magic ever since you were a baby.”

Annev rubbed the black glove covering his left arm. “I’ve been using a magic item. That

doesn’t mean I have magic, or that I know how to use magic. Seas and skies, I don’t even know

how I’m using this arm.” He waved the enchanted prosthetic at Sodar. “If it hadn’t fallen off that

time I burned my hand, I might have grown up thinking it was the real thing.”

“Hush,” Sodar said, holding a finger to his lips. “Someone may hear you.”

Annev bit his lip. “Sorry.”

Sodar nodded. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “I know you get frustrated by all these tests,

but they are important.” He stopped, a wistful expression spreading across his face. “I’d

forgotten about that time you stuck your hand in the fire. How old were you then? Six? Seven?”

“I was four.”

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Sodar shook his head, chuckling. “Can’t imagine what possessed you to do such a thing.

You cried out but once, when your hand touched the embers, and then you were afraid to let me

put the prosthetic back on.”

“In my defense, I didn’t know it was a prosthetic at the time. I’d say I handled the

incident pretty well, all things considered.”

Sodar laughed again then nodded. “That’s just my point, Annev. I know you can use

magic, even if you don’t believe me. We just need to find a way to break that block you have.”

Annev heaved a great sigh and dumped himself into the chair facing Sodar. “Fine. Let’s

do it then. Only let’s make it quick. No glyph-making or rune-speaking. That way I can still get

to class on time.”

“What do you suggest?”

Annev pretended to think for a moment then snapped his fingers as if he had an idea.

“Bring out the bottomless bag of disappointments!”

Sodar frowned but said nothing. Instead he shook his head, set his cup down on the table,

and exited through the door connecting to his private chambers. When he returned, he carried a

small drawstring sack. By all appearances it looked to be empty, but Annev knew better.

Sodar set the pale green sack on the table and picked back up his mug of tea. He gestured

with his chin towards the item on the table. Annev slid the bag across the worn tabletop and

untied the drawstring. He stuck his right hand inside, turned the bag inside-out, and examined its

stitching.

“How does it work?” Annev said after a long moment.

“You know how it works. Put your hand inside the sack and think of something that’s

been put there. Then pull it out.”

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“That’s not what I meant.”

“You mean, why does it work that way?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmm.” Sodar sipped from the mug of tea and eased himself into the second chair. “To

be honest, I’m not really sure. It uses a magic I’m unfamiliar with.”

“Isn’t that…kind of dangerous?”

Sodar pursed his lips then nodded. “It can be. But sometimes the risk is worth the reward.

The ability to hide something where no one else will know to look for it can mean the difference

between life and death. In our case, I think it’s worth the risk.”

“But when you put things inside the sack, they disappear. Could that happen...to

yourself? I mean, if you leave your hand inside the bag for too long...”

“Will it cut off your hand?” Sodar asked, smiling.

“Yeah,” Annev replied, self-consciously rubbing his left arm.

Sodar chuckled. “I imagine that whoever created the sack figured out a way to work

around that. After all, a hiding-sack wouldn’t be much good if its owner lost a limb every time he

reached inside.”

“But what if I put my prosthetic hand inside? What would happen then?”

Sodar smiled. “You need to let go of the thing you’re holding before the sack can take it.

As long as your arm is attached to your body, I’m sure you’d be fine.”

Annev nodded, though he was still unconvinced. He picked back up the sack and turned

it right-side-out. “You said you’re not familiar with the magic used to make the sack. So who

made it?”

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Sodar leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard. “Near as I can tell, it was a Terran.

Sometime around the First or Second Age.”

Annev frowned. “That would make this over a thousand years old.”

“Three or four-thousand, yes. I’m sure it has had a lot of owners in that time, too. Until

the Masters at the Academy stole it, that is.”

Annev rubbed the soft, threadbare cloth in his fingers and shook his head, marveling at its

age. “Why do you think a Terran made it?”

“Ilumites aren’t normally in the habit of creating permanent magical items,” Sodar said,

taking another sip from his tea, “and I don’t see any Darite glyphs on the fabric. That seems to

make it a Terran artifact. That, and Terrans made most artifacts in existence. Unfortunately, I

know very little about Terran magic, so I can’t guess as to how it was made.”

Annev nodded. “So why do you think it’s from the Second Age?”

Sodar reached for the sack and Annev handed it to him. “Because one day when I was at

market, I stuck my hand inside to pull out a coin.” Sodar demonstrated by putting his wrinkled

hand inside the sack. “I had dropped a handful of coins in here a few days before, and I was only

buying bread, so I didn’t much care what coin I pulled out.” Sodar removed his hand from the

sack and dropped a misshapen copper penny on the table. “Imagine my surprise when my hand

came out with that.”

Annev picked up the piece of metal. The coin was heavier than he expected, rough

around the edges and not perfectly circular. The faces were also a bit worn, but on the front he

could just make out a casting of the staff of Odar dividing a wind-tossed sea from a lightning-

streaked sky. Annev hefted the penny in his hand and flipped it over to its other side. On the

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opposite face was a picture of a wicked-looking war falcon: part smith’s hammer, part billhook;

the long-handled weapon floated ominously above a smoking anvil.

“Keos,” Annev whispered, dropping the coin. The copper rolled unsteadily across the

table’s surface before toppling over in front of Sodar’s mug.

“Keos, indeed,” Sodar said, picking up the penny.

“I’ve never seen any coins like that before,” Annev breathed. “Is that Darite or Terran?”

“Both.” Sodar turned the coin over in his hand. “The nations of Daroea and Terra shared

currency for a brief period during the Age of Kings. Prior to that, currency had been a foreign

concept and people subsisted on bartering and trading. The shared currency only lasted a few

centuries, though. After that, the governments became independent of one another and adopted

their own forms of currency. All the old coins were put out of circulation and destroyed.” Sodar

expertly flipped the coin between his fingers, moving it from his thumb and forefinger to his

pinky and back. Then, in a flick of his fingertips, the coin vanished.

“Magic?” Annev asked, awestruck by the display.

Sodar laughed but shook his head. He reached behind Annev’s ear and, when he brought

his hand back, the coin was pinched between his fingers. “Just a trick. But even tricks have their

place.” He dropped the copper penny back into the green sack and handed the latter to Annev.

“Now I want you to reach inside and pull out that same penny.”

Annev took the sack in his left hand and opened it. He frowned, peering inside the dark

mouth of the bag. It once again appeared empty. He gripped the edges of the sack, sighed, and

shook his head. “I can’t do it, Sodar. I’d be lucky if I could pull out a ball of lint.”

“I’d settle for that.”

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Annev shrugged then stuck his right hand inside the bag and fished around for a moment.

After a few seconds, he pulled his hand out. “You realize how silly this feels, right? Rummaging

inside an empty sack? It’s…”

“The embodiment of futility?”

“I was going to say silly.”

Sodar waved a hand dismissively. “Just put your hand back in there and concentrate on

finding the penny. Remember its heft. What was engraved on it. What it looked like. How it felt

in your hand.”

Annev put his hand back in the sack and swirled his hand around in a circular motion. “A

super old penny. Got it. I’m picturing it now.”

“Now find it. It’s in there. You saw me drop it in there. It’s just waiting for you to pull it

out.”

Annev circled his hand around the inside of the bag a few more times then stopped. His

eyebrows shot up and a look of astonishment passed over him. “I think I got it,” he whispered,

slowly pulling his hand from the mantis-green sack.

Sodar licked his lips and leaned forward, his eyes glued to Annev’s tight-fisted hand.

“You pulled something out? Well done, my boy! Well done. Give it here. Let’s see it.” He held

his hand extended beneath Annev’s fist and watched as Annev opened his hand, palm facing

downward.

And nothing fell out.

Sodar frowned then looked up to find Annev restraining his laughter. When his eyes met

Annev’s, the boy burst out laughing.

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“I gotcha!” Annev said, snorting. “I’m sorry, Sodar, but that was really too easy. I had to

do it.”

The old priest sniffed and snatched the sack back from Annev. “If you took this more

seriously, you would have more success.”

“If I had any success, I might take it more seriously,” Annev countered. He stood up from

the table. “I should go. If I’m late for Dorstal’s class, he’ll disqualify me from today’s test.”

Sodar nodded, also rising from his seat. He placed a hand on Annev’s shoulder. “Be

careful today. I’ve seen how competitive those boys get, especially during combat. A good thief

is best at avoiding fights, not winning them.”

“We’re not thieves, Sodar. We’re avatars.”

Sodar grunted. “I see little difference, but at least you’re taking something seriously.” He

picked up his mug and carried the sack back into his room. Annev waited for a long moment, but

when the priest didn’t return he moved towards the door to the chapel.

“Annev,” Sodar called, just as the boy had stepped across the threshold. Annev turned

and saw the priest standing in the opposite door frame. His naked hands curled and uncurled in

front of his chest, uncertain where to go. The priest finally settled on clasping them in a tight ball

beneath his beard. “I know you. You’re a better avatar than any boy in that class, even if they

haven’t given you the title yet. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

Annev frowned, remembering his dream from earlier that morning.

“Maybe I do.”