The spellbinder fell back upon ingrained reflex and impelled l~is stunned limbs to keep moving. However he cowered and shrank from close contact, he feared worse to cross the outright command of a Sorcerer raised to the flash-point pinnacle wrought from bridled chaos and immaculate intent. Dakar prodded the horses' stumbling strides to narrow the last distance between.

Felirin hung back, stupefied, until an appeal from Asandir yoked the gray with a word that could have moved rooted granite. The horse led the minstrel, bonded in light, and a mystery outside plod- ding reason.

They crossed inside the proximity of the Fellowship conjury.

"Well-done, but hurry," Asandir exhorted. "The currents of this dream state aren't kindly or biddable." His voice cut through actinic bursts of refined power as if speech had been honed by something beyond sound. "I won't be able to temper the forces here to keep you alive for much longer."

Dakar forced the question. "Then this isn't Arithon's creation of despair?"

"Never that," Asandir flung back, strained. "Move him on. Hurry.

He's unconscious because his own trained defenses are killing him."

But the order itself proved most difficult to carry out. The potency of the Sorcerer's wards of themselves seemed to hamper free move- ment. Dakar felt as though each of his steps was dragged through shimmering mercury. The powerfield scoured his mage-sight until vision dissolved behind a deluge of silver-tipped sleet. His tired mind could not compensate.

43O.

FUGITIVE I)RINCE.

He was vaguely aware of passing the gateway between the dragon's front teeth. Two horses followed, their breath hot on his neck, and through that sensation, the ghost-feather touch of Asandir's guiding hand on his shoulder.

"Keep going, as you love life!" The Sorcerer's raw strength stead- ied him over the pothole of bone that yawned between the vast jaw- bones. "Don't worry about shielding. I'll see that Felirin comes to no harm."

"The dragon," Dakar asked. "Do you fear she'll awaken?"

Asandir faced him, his surprise etched in glare, and his eyes the flecked gray of rinsed granite. "Ath, no. She's been dead for two ages.

You don't see? This grimward contains the left dreams of her haunt."

"A ghost's imprint?" Dakar stared, his skin ashen. "Dharkaron's own tears! You're saying a live one would dream the more power- fully?"

"Enough to reweave the known fabric of creation." Asandir's brisk push sent him onward, under the ribbed vaults of the gullet. "Go now. To leave, you must enter the inner chamber of the skull. The pas- sage won't be smooth or comfortable, but rest on my word. You'll emerge unmarked in due time."

The Mad Prophet tightened his sweaty grip on the lead reins. The horses trailed at his heels without protest, thralled to submission by spells. "You're not coming yourself?"

Asandir shook his head. "Forty Alliance guardsmen crossed into the grimward's sealed circle. Twenty eight have perished for their folly. If they killed game, or broke off so much as a leaf in this place, my powers could not stay their spirits from entanglement. More will be lost ere they reach my protection. For the sake of any who may live to win through, I have obligation to stay. Once I lift my influence, the dream will revert back to entropic chaos. Only another great drake could survive, and then solely because it could remake the torn struc- ture of its being."

The Sorcerer's last words splashed a patter of echoes through a thousandfold crannies of chambered bone. "Dakar, caution your prince." The admonishment filtered through the ringing reverberao tions of hooves striking the slagged plates of the fire vents at each side of the dragon's throat. "Any guardsman who emerges alive from this grimward will remember his fear and cry vengeance. Be wary.

Blame will fall on the Master of Shadow for all of Hanshire's slain company."

"Tell my prince," Dakar grumbled..He resisted the craven urge to shut his eyes and ignore the forbidding cavern which yawned ahead 451.

JANN WURTS.

of his quaking steps. "Since when did I ever swear fealty to wanted dead by half the townsmen on the continent?"

Any future concern seemed a pittance before the crossing still to surmount. From behind, a flurried prayer as Felirin braved the dark on the tails of the glassy-eyed horses. Dakar crept into the fusty darkness. His boot soles slipped and minced across a surface ~ watered marble, while the unseen, vaulted cranium flung back echoes of each wheezing breath. In blind trust, the Mad Prophet hoped Arithon stayed on the mare as the lightless cavern engulfed !

him. Sound just beyond the high range of his hearing seemed to rip- ple like ribbon across his ears. Then his vision shimmered, punched through by sparks and sequins of chipped obsidian. A rash of fine prickles stabbed over his skin, and vertigo twisted his senses.

Then a magic wrapped in energies he had never known bathed all of his nerve ends in fire. Every last tie to creation unraveled. Sucked into the well of primal oblivion, Dakar realized in panic that this crossing was nothing like a guided spell transfer from a familiar Para- vian focus circle. As his mind spiraled down toward the heart of null darkness, he cried out in sheer panic. He did not know how to untan- gle this pattern. Nor had he the clues to the necessary knowledge cached amid his muddled memories of prostitutes. No one had taught him the guidepost to relocate the haven of Athera's known ter- ritory.

432.

Late Spring 5653 Recall Just before solstice, the nights in Caithwood held a soft, breathing warmth, the air thick as milk in the pearlescent moonlight which streamed through the dense crowns of old oak trees. These ancient groves had never tasted the axe blade. Nor had black soil known the bite of the plow, or the turned iron rim of the cart wheel. The pale, whorled bark of ancient copper beeches wore mottles like coin silver where the strung-floss motes speared the darkness. Rolling combers off Mainmere Bay lisped through, sea and earth joined in dialogue by the whisper of the leaves that stirred to the tireless breezes. The mock- ingbird's song and the whistles of nightjars spilled liquid notes through the stillness, much as they had in Paravian times when cen- taur guardians had reigned, and the sunchild dancers had called down the mysteries that moved, incarnate, with the wild grace of the unicorns.

In Third Age 5653, no Athlien flutes rang through Caithwood's glades to celebrate the joy of the season; nor did centaur horn calls reverberate under the eaves of the oaks. Yet in their absence, the low, sandy shoreline which faced Havish and the sands at Torwent did not pass unpatrolled. In furtive, tight bands, Lord Maenol's scouts kept watch for oncoming Alliance ships.

A month past, the contents of Mearn s'Brydion's warning had reached them, word of the coming blockade brought in by runner from Mogg's Fen. The Caithwood clans knew of the Koriani conspir- acy at Riverton which had set Arithon s'Ffalenn to blind flight. They 433.

JANNY WURT$.

received the worst news with grim determination, that three finis vessels had sailed from their launching, packed with Etarran men-at- arms and sealed orders to cut off Mainmere Narrows until nothing alive could slip through. At all costs, the handful of scouts under- stood they must hold the coastline open, that the families set to flight from the north could stay free to seek promised sanctuary in Havish.

Never mind their strength was insufficient for the task, their num- bers pared thin by bloodshed and necessity. Lord Maenol's ap?eal asked no quarter, allowed space for no preference or pity.

Despite closing threat, no one thought of desertion. The Caithwo0d scouts kept their posts, their forest held sacrosanct by a hard-bitten few, sworn to lay down life and safety for their caithdein.

Not even the lean fisherman's dory run in by dark escaped their exhaustive vigilance.

"Two occupants," whispered the woman who had just sprinted in from the lookout at the mouth of the Narrows. "One passive, an~~ the other manning the oars. Neither looks armed. We saw no glint of weapons, but then, sure's storm, they haven't come here to go cod fishing."

The stem elder who captained the outpost made his immediate decision. "Watch then. They don't leave the shingle unchallenged." A hand signal sent two reserve scouts off on foray, with the elder him- self at the fore.

By the raked dunes at the shoreline, the three clansmen crouched wary in rustling stands of sea grass, while the dory knifed in to make landfall. Its sharp prow and muffled oars formed a cut black phantom against lucent lace sheets that billowed and surged where the froth of spent breakers receded. As the curl of the surf shot the craft through the shallows, the old scout made comment. "Torwent fisherman. See the woven string bracelets? He's also damned good with the boat."

The man dragged his broad looms, and in dauntless competence, let his keel gently ground into sand.

The other figure in the stem seat clambered out, the brimmed hat he wore obscuring his face from clear view. While the inboun~ combers fountained over his shins, he leaned down and recovered ~ satchel he had tucked safely under the stern seat. An older man, h~ seemed an enigma, his simple, dark clothing too plain to identify ~ regional origin. Though his burden was not heavy, an odd hitch to hi~ movements bespoke stiffened scars or old injuries. The hands tha clasped the dory's thwart and redirected it seaward were gnarled ant bent, if still competent.

His spoken farewell did not carry. The oarsman nodded i~ 434.

FUGITIVE PRINCE.

clipped respect, then dug in his looms to hurry his return passage before the riptide raced through the Narrows. The one he had covertly delivered to Caithwood waded shoreward, his limp grown pronounced as the wet sand mired his ankles. Once on dry ground, he paused, the flat spill of the moonlight licking the hanks of white, shoulder-length hair. He tipped his face skyward. Beneath the brimmed hat, his features were cragged and intent, as if he expected ~lll omeI1.

Out of the night, a raven flapped down and settled upon his raised wrist.

He lilted a greeting. The bird answered back, then sidestepped to perch on his shoulder.

"Here's a friend." The scout captain stood in the shoulder-high dune grass, his distrust melted into glad greeting. "Traithe?"

The Fellowship Sorcerer turned his clean-shaven chin and smiled.

"My blessing, yes. You're Maenol's captain?"

"For Caithwood, I am." The elder strode forward, then beckoned for the other hidden scouts to reveal themselves. While the velvet thick breeze stirred the fronds on the seed heads, and the raven on Traithe's shoulder stretched a coal wing to preen, the older captain presented the courtesy of the clans to visiting members of the Fellow- ship. "How may we serve the land?"

Traithe hooked the strap of his satchel, and stroked the bird's breast with his knuckle. "My tidings aren't joyous. I need you to tell me where I might find Earl Jieret s'Valerient, who serves Prince Arithon as caithdein of Rathain."

"Please Ath, not a death!" The female scout fanned off trailing mosquitoes and strode forward. "Or do you bring warning of the Alliance attack we've expected for over a fortnight?"

The Sorcerer reached out at once and touched her tense wrist, laced into its bowman's leather bracer. "Not a death. But I can't keep that promise without your help and swift action. Is the Earl with your band?"

"He's four hours north of here, quartered in a hidden glen." The scout captain extended a hand to assist with the satchel, then deferred as Traithe chose to retain the burden himself. Since a Sorcerer's ways were no man's to question, the captain moved on without embarrass- ment. "Shore's not altogether safe with Alliance galleys plying the bay on patrol. We'll send a runner."

But Traithe shook his head as he fell into stride. "Spare your man."

The play of the breeze riffled his platinum hair, while the hat's loom- ing brim threw a shadow like ink over his urgent expression. "If you 435.

JANNY WURTS.

know the way to this glen that you speak of, describe the terrain.: raven can lead me."

"The path is straightforward." The captain's pinched away from his uneasy survey of the offshore horizon. "Best we the details out of sight from this beachhead. If your bird guidance, the camp where Jieret's quartered keeps horses."

Traithe's gratitude showed as a gleam of white teeth in jet shadow.

"My raven can summon him, then. If Earl Jieret can manage to be here before daybreak, the land will be served very well."

"You bring news of the Alliance?" pressed the other scout. Lanky, and just come to early manhood, he kept a swaggering fist on his sword hilt. More than the others, he seemed drawn by the stress 0t the pending Alliance invasion.

"Nothing so simple." Traithe no longer smiled, the bracketed lines at the comers of his mouth grooved deep with the wear of hard travel. "In a desperate move to cut off pursuit, Prince Arithon crossed through a grimward."

"Ath preserve!" the woman scout whispered.

Before her aghast fear, the Sorcerer used what logic he had to feed hope. "Rathain's prince was well trained by a master at mage- craft. He survived the dangerous passage well enough, but his con- science is troubled. He required more than self-discipline to keep his despair in check. Now those defenses have driven him far beyond waking consciousness. He will stay lost between dimen- sional realities unless Jieret s'Valerient can reach past the veil and find him."

Surrounded by worried clan faces, and a quiet that bred despera- tion, the Sorcerer flexed his shoulders in a tight shrug. The raven croaked in complaint, its wings unfolded for balance. "We have no choice. The ties of the blood pact sworn between the caithdein and his prince must be enacted to recall the Teir's'Ffalenn across time and space." In gentle reminder, Traithe hastened his step toward the sheb tering dark of the forest. "Timing is crucial. The opening spells to bridge the connection must be enacted at dawn."

He did not speak of the dire hurdles to be crossed, nor mention the unconscionable intensity of Arithon's grief, or the mind-stripping, ingrained misery which might come to thwart his best effort. The prospect of failure was too real, too immediate. Arithon's downfall might lie at hand despite all his help, and Earl Jieret's willing duty to be called to shoulder the sacrifice. A Sorcerer left crippled by past conflict with the Mistwraith could do naught but listen, as his bird did the same, head cocked to one side, while the Caithwood captain 436.

FUGITIVE PRINCE.

gave terse description of the location and landmarks of the camp where Earl Jieret took shelter.

"Go brother," Traithe murmured. A testy croak answered. The raven flapped silken wings and launched on its errand. Its flight clove the falling, gossamer moonbeams like a silent, obsidian cleaver, then arrowed up through a gap in the foliage.

The Sorcerer stared after his bird's vanished form, hands knotted over the strap of his satchel. The bird bridged what access he could wring from maimed talent, and until it returned, he was both mortal and blinded. Too aware the comfort of polite hospitality fell short, the scouts pressed close and took charge. "You must be fired. Let us know if you're hungry." In soft words and brisk movement, they shared every amenity they could offer under the eaves of the forest.

Their outpost was temporary, a narrow, hidden glen tucked behind the bulrushes of a tidal marsh. Maples and oaks leaned over a brook whose banks were entangled in brambles. The scouts not on watch dozed on piles of bracken, cut fresh to drive off biting insects. They lit no cookfire. Swords were kept within immediate reach, and no one packed belongings beyond skinning knives and a hunting bow.

Through the lush season, they foraged fish and game, and smoked food for the trail when hunting would slow their swift progress.

At ease with the untamed fabric of night, Traithe's form melted into the tangled darkness under the leafed crown of old forest. His tacit awareness tracked the flutter of moths and the rustles of mice in the undergrowth, while someone's shy boy offered him dried meat and berries, and a chilly dipper of springwater. Weary though he was, he chose not to sleep.

Patient for the return of his raven, he spoke his thanks in a resonant baritone, one knee drawn up and clasped to his chest. If sheer calm could command the elements, his poise could have arrested the fugi- tive trickle of water over rocks in the streamlet. His ever-present worry lay perfectly masked, while each minute fretted past, and a hunting owl flew, and a late-singing mockingbird caroled a solo through the last hours of darkness.

His vigil did not pass without camaraderie. While the wind stroked through the boughs overhead, and summer stars marked and measured their courses, three wakeful scouts exchanged jibes and desultory small talk. "Not to worry," assured one, caught napping between topics. "Quiet's thick enough to suffocate. An inbound horseman is going to draw notice like a drum squad."

The scarred veteran who wound bowstrings from a coil of dried gut resumed listing the particulars of the Alliance campaign that 437.

JANNY WURTS.

savaged the wilds of south Tysan. "No good news, from upstream.

We've a precious narrow margin, and no hope at all if our sea~'a~'d horizon doesn't stay empty. It's plain once the ships come, haven't a prayer."

The battle-scarred woman raked her whetstone in a vehement pass across the weapon bridged across her bare knees. "Sunwheel are riddled through the vales above Mainmere. Person can't walk to the riverside to piss without being set after by dogs."

Another scout wearing an otter-claw necklace filled in lac~nic detail. "They've swept the forests as far south as Cainford. No~v escapes their patrols, it's that tight. We have families trapped ~ mountains who've had to hole up past the snow line. They can scarcely brave the open plain to cross Camris. Armed companie~ move in too fast off the trade road, and time's now our bitterest enemy."

Traithe worked his ~ .~arred knuckles to keep the joints supple.

unable to deny the assessment. Scarcity of game, or bad weather i~ autumn would eventually drive the trapped clan fugitives out of hid- ing. Already, the Alliance net spread over the lowlands to snare them.

"They could survive well enough in the heights," another sco~~~ picked up. "But no one can win past to send them provisions. We've bloodied ourselves trying. Too many armed companies with wheel banners are camped tight as ticks in the foothills. Gold the trade guilds keeps them supplied, and their dogs have be~,~ ~ ~.~t t~ run silent."

"And Lord Maenol?" Traithe asked, carefully neutral lest h~s apprehension burden the troubled scouts further.

The one blacking his features with charcoal in readiness for tossed his used stick into the streamlet, his frustration a whisF~.~'

leathers in darkness. "Our caithdein's trapped down in the Fenlanders shelter him as best they can, but he's been on the run the springtime."

A jagged gap held the dammed-back questions no one dared concerning the overdue Alliance ships. For well past a fortnight, watch on the shoreline had expected armed forces to seal a blockac~ over the Narrows. The Alliance's crowning strategy would cut o~f last avenue of escape for the clan families driven south, who claim safe sanctuary under King Eldir in Havish.

Traithe stared at the scarred knuckles laced like braid over sound knee tucked to his chest. He could give no encouragen~en'..

News from the Warden of Althain always ran through his raven, and the latest sending had held only the images of two brigs in convoy at 438.

FUGITIVE PRINCE.

sea. He had not picked up any visible landmark to guess their prox- imity to Caithwood.

"I'm sorry. I bear you no news, ill or good." The Sorcerer chafed, pulled a raw breath, then admitted, "If Earl Jieret can pull Prince Arithon through, the spellbinder Dakar will be with him. Our com- bined efforts can bridge a clear contact to the Warden at Althain Tower. Sethvir will have the answers you need."

The earth link would show where the danger lay, and give accurate account of the Cariadwin's fated landfall at Corith.

Despite the gravity of clan woes in Tysan, one sharp-eyed young strategist picked up the unspoken thread. "You imply Rathain's prince may not be successfully recovered?"

"There is that grim chance." Traithe looked up, his coffee eyes bleak with an honesty that admitted no shame for his weakness. "The Fel- lowship Sorcerers are beleaguered with troubles. At this time, I was the only one able to come here. Ath grant us the grace that Jieret's courage and my services will be enough to bring Prince Arithon through."

After that, there was indeed little to say, and nothing to do but wait out the night in defined, silent tension.

Ink against darkness, a shape rode the air in the stilled, murky hour before dawn. The scout captain started, hand closed on his sword until a touch from the Sorcerer calmed him. "Peace. No harm's come."

The raven fluttered down and settled with a boisterous croak on its master's black-clad shoulder. The rider it had summoned cantered in a moment later and dismounted at the head of the glen. Unasked, the younger scout rose to take the reins and care for the horse. The arrival himself made almost no sound as he strode into the encampment.