The Voice of the Exalted. Vethiq aril Tolsadri. Balandrick had heard a great deal about him from Algariq during their journey. He despised himself for having betrayed such an important secret, but part of him knew there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. Fat lot of good it does to tell myself that, he thought. I should have found a way to fall on my sword, if nothing else.

They were quickly confronted at the perimeter, where Algariq spoke to the soldiers in their native tongue. Balandrick eyed the soldiers carefully. He noted the strange armor Gerin had described, and the variety of races that comprised the Havalqa military. Skin color that ranged from olive to brown to nearly jet, as well as paler flesh like his own. Exotic eye shapes and intricately tattooed symbols.

The soldiers treated Algariq with contempt, though they grudgingly allowed her to pa.s.s after gesturing toward an area deeper in the encampment. "Follow," was all she said to him, though he could hear the shame and anger in her voice.

They reached the command area of the encampment. It was well-guarded, and contained the largest and most colorful tents, dyed with broad stripes of crimson, purple, and gold. Algariq was once more shamed and treated poorly by the soldiers before finally being ushered into one of the larger tents. Balandrick could almost see the tension growing in her as they stepped through the flap. She doubts whether she'll leave here alive, he thought.

She approached a dark-haired man whose back was turned toward them. He was bent over a table, studying a large stained map. A single manservant lurked in the shadows near the tent wall. Stopping several feet behind him, she bowed her head. "Honored Voice, I have brought an important captive to you."

The man spun about as if he'd heard the voice of Shayphim himself. "You!" he snarled. "How dare you sully my quarters with you filthy presence!" He struck her with the back of his hand, hard enough to stagger her. Balandrick saw a streamer of blood fly from her mouth.

The dark-haired man raised his hand once more, his expression contorted with murderous rage. Before he could swing, she said, "Honored Voice, if you touch me again, I will die before revealing the location of the Words of Making. I swear this on the name of Holvareh Himself, and upon the honor of Bariq the Wise."

Tolsadri paused. "You threaten me now, wretch?"

He moved with the speed of a striking snake. A small knife appeared in his hand-the same one Gerin had used to kill him on Gedsengard?-and flicked it toward her. Its blade hovered at the side of Algariq's neck. She did not so much as flinch. She stared at Tolsadri with cold defiance.

"I should kill you now," he said. "You deserve death for your failure on the island. I will have your naked corpse dance for my amus.e.m.e.nt."

"Kill me and you will learn nothing. I know where the Words can be found. If you want that knowledge, you will agree to my terms."

He laughed harshly. ' "Terms'? You do not set 'terms' with the Voice of the Exalted, wretch. You will tell me what you know, or you will know the true meaning of suffering."

"I will die before I reveal anything to you if you do not agree to my wishes." She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as if discussing the weather. "You can sense the truth of some things, Honored Voice, if the stories about you are true. You should know I mean what I say."

"Why should I believe you have the secret of the Words?"

"If I had nothing to offer you, I would be worse than a fool to come here."

Balandrick saw Tolsadri tense the arm that held the knife, and felt certain he would slit Algariq's throat and be done with it.

But Tolsadri withdrew his hand and stepped back. "State your terms. I will decide whether they are to be honored."

"Before I reveal anything, you will elevate me to the caste of Yendis, as was promised to me in the decree from the Exalted herself before we set sail for these lands. That was to be my reward for accomplishing my task, which I have now done twice. Defy this again, and you will be an oath breaker in the eyes of Bariq, a dangerous thing for an Adept and Loremaster.

"Second, you will swear by the holy power of Bariq the Wise that you will attempt no retaliation against me for demanding what is rightfully mine to begin with. I will be permitted to leave here unmolested and unharmed."

Tolsadri c.o.c.ked his head, as if trying to decide whether to laugh at her or drive his knife into her eye.

"I will agree to your terms, wretch," he said after a moment. "Let it never be said that I do not honor my word. But if you do not have the knowledge you claim to have, I promise you will not leave this tent alive, and that it will be a long time before you die."

"That is acceptable, Honored Voice."

Tolsadri spoke to the servant in their native tongue. The olive-skinned man bowed and left the tent. He returned shortly with a pudgy, red-faced man.

"Enbrahel," said Tolsadri, "you must witness the elevation of this woman to the caste of the Mother. The requirements of tel'fan must be observed."

The shorter man's eyes widened in surprise. Then he remembered himself and bowed his head. "Yes, Honored Voice. I will do as you command."

Tolsadri issued another command to the servant, who once more departed the tent.

The Voice then began an invocation in his native tongue. It did not seem to Balandrick that any magic was involved. It appeared to be more of a religious ritual, with the shorter man interjecting ceremonial phrases at periodic intervals. Algariq stood with her head bowed, her hands clasped in front of her.

The servant returned and placed a new set of clothes, a flagon of water, and a few small objects on the map table. Without faltering in the invocation, Tolsadri turned and filled a hammered bronze bowl with a small amount of water. He said something directly to Algariq, and she raised her head and accepted the bowl from his hands. He issued what was obviously a command, and she took a sip from the bowl. Balandrick noticed that her hands were trembling.

Tolsadri spoke a clipped sentence, after which Algariq extended her arm. He picked up a small wooden statue of a woman and held it firmly in his hand. His voice changed, grew deeper and more powerful. He placed his palm over the back of Algariq's hand-Balandrick wondered how much revulsion Tolsadri had to overcome in order to touch her skin in a way that wasn't intended to harm her-and began to rub it in a small circle.

A few moments later he withdrew his hand. There was a white symbol on Algariq's flesh, a spiral radiating straight lines from its center with an eye-shaped oval above and below.

Tolsadri stepped back and spoke the concluding phrase of the ritual. From his tone and everyone's change in demeanor, it was obvious to Balandrick that the ceremony was over. Enbrahel clapped his hands once and bowed his head. Algariq shuddered and stared, transfixed, at the white mark on her arm.

The servant gathered the clothes from the table and positioned himself behind Algariq. To Balandrick's surprise, he helped her remove her garments until she was in only her underclothes. She did not seem ashamed or embarra.s.sed. Indeed, there was a look of elation, almost religious fervor, on her face.

The servant then helped her dress in her new clothes. They were plain, unadorned, but from Algariq's expression, might have been the garments of a queen. She was trembling openly as the servant finished.

Tolsadri held out a large coin. She took it and held it in both hands.

"It is done," he said. "You and your line are now of the caste of Yendis."

Algariq drew a deep, ragged breath, like someone gasping for air after a near drowning. She muttered something too quietly for Balandrick to hear, but it had the cadence of a prayer.

Tolsadri loomed over her. The threat in his posture and expression could not be clearer.

"And now you will tell me everything there is to know about the Words of Making."

Algariq barely heard the Voice speak to her. She had done it. At last, after so many years, a lifetime of pain and regret and sorrow, she had achieved her goal of escaping the clutches of the Harridan. I am free, she thought. And Huma is free as well. The mark on her arm would have appeared on his as well, a sign that he, too, had been elevated.

But she knew she was not truly free yet. Indeed, she was still in mortal danger until she could get away from the Voice of the Exalted.

She commanded her captive to tell the Voice all he knew of the Words of Making. Her captive described where the fortress could be found and what he knew of its defenses. While he talked, the witness to her raising was called away; the servant, too, disappeared from the tent on some unknown errand. Algariq smiled inwardly. The Mother's grace shines upon me this day, she thought. Truly, I have been blessed.

Tolsadri asked her captive a number of questions, some of which he could answer and others that he could not.

"That is everything he knows?" Tolsadri asked her.

"Yes, Honored Voice."

Tolsadri folded his arms and tapped his fingers against his beard. "Very well. I am done with you. Go, but do not let me ever see you again."

She inclined her head to him as custom dictated, but every nerve in her body was ready to spring. He did exactly what she expected him to do. The moment she bowed, he lashed out with a long knife he kept tucked up one of his sleeves. Prepared for such an attack, she leapt backward, before the blade buried itself in her heart. As she did, she shot her hand out and brushed it across Tolsadri's wrist. The edge of the blade sliced into her forearm, but she ignored the pain and released her power.

She felt the Voice's will enter her. She had not known if her power would work on an Adept and Loremaster-it was possible that the Mysteries of Bariq would provide some element of protection-but she had no choice. It was either control him or perish.

"Put your weapon away and remain silent," she commanded.

Tolsadri tucked the knife back into his sleeve, his expression slack.

She longed to know how he raged inside the silence of his mind, l.u.s.ting to kill her for what she had done to him. She rarely took pleasure in the use of her power, but this time was different. This time she felt a great deal of joy in controlling this evil man, even though she dared not harm him. There was only so much she could risk.

"I knew you would be false," she said to him quietly. "You're unworthy of your lofty station, 'Honored Voice.' I was once a wretch of the Harridan, yet I have more honor than you can comprehend.

"You will forget what I have just done to you. When you think on it, you will recall only what you were told about the Words of Making and that my captive and I departed soon after. You will not think about us again.

"You will do one more thing for me. Write a letter granting me safe pa.s.sage through the Path of Ashes so that I may return to our homeland and my son. Do it now, and be quick." She again took great joy in commanding Tolsadri, but her stomach fluttered with fear that she would be caught and her freedom would end before it truly began.

Tolsadri turned to the table, retrieved a pen and parchment, and quickly wrote out her grant of safe pa.s.sage, which he then sealed with his Ring of Bariq. She took it from him and hid it within her new clothes. New clothes for my new life.

"Go to sleep, Tolsadri. If your servant returns, tell him you do not feel well and order him not to disturb you until morning. Again, you will forget what I have done to you. Keep the knowledge of the Words of Making, but all else will vanish from you mind, including any desire to harm me."

To her captive, she said, "Come. We are leaving."

As they made their way through the encampment, Balandrick wondered how long she would keep him alive. She no longer had any need for him. Killing him in the camp might draw attention that she did not want and delay her escape, but he did not hold out any illusions that he would live long once they cleared the perimeter.

Reshel, it seems I'll see you soon. I hope you'll be waiting for me inside the gates of Velyol. I've missed you dearly. He did not attempt to fight Algariq's control of him. He knew it was futile. It was time to resign himself to his fate. The idea of seeing Reshel again was a small comfort to him, one he held close to his heart, like a candle in a darkened room.

Algariq did not speak to him as they hurried through the rows of tents, but he could sense a change in her nonetheless. On their journey here, she had hunched her shoulders and lowered her head, trying to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible, fearing to draw notice to herself and her station and the scorn and loathing accompanying that recognition.

Now she walked almost proudly, a new woman reborn in the ritual performed by the Exalted's loathsome Voice.

They retrieved her horse without difficulty. The soldiers scarcely looked at her when she spoke to them.

"Get onto the saddle behind me," she commanded. "Put your arms around my waist. We need to be far away from here come the dawn."

She rode to the east, following the course of the river. By now full night had fallen. She did not speak to him, concentrating instead on their path along the edge of the trees. A few times he nodded off in the saddle. Strange, that he could sleep so close to his own death.

He felt remorse over his inability to keep his secrets from the soul stealer, but also knew there was no way to resist her. Her power over him was absolute. There was nothing he could have done.

What he experienced more strongly was a resignation toward his own death. He was a soldier. His country was at war, and he was in the hands of the enemy. It was simple: his time had come. He needed to accept it for what it was-the inevitable end of his life.

He also felt oddly elated at the thought of seeing Reshel again. He knew he should not be happy about his death; that was an unworthy thought, akin to suicide, an act frowned upon by the priests of Telros. There had been some debate about Reshel's death among the priesthood. Did her own suicide preclude her from sainthood? Was she condemned to the darkest halls of Velyol for that sin, or was the selflessness that compelled her actions upon the Sundering sufficient to redeem her?

In the end they decided that sacrificing herself so that others might live was reason enough to declare her a saint. There were historical precedents: the last, hopeless stand of Noren at the Battle of Kuldain's Crossing sprang to mind, and also Elg's leap from the Tower of Sumlar. The priests had not debated the point long. They knew of the people's love for the royal daughter and what she had done for them. To sully her memory was to flirt with open rebellion.

So he could not be happy about his own death, but he could accept it peacefully, and with grace. There was no point in anguishing over what he could not change.

Algariq reined the horse to a stop. He could just barely make out the shape of a barn perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead of them, its thatch roof frosted with starlight.

"Get down," she commanded.

As always, he obeyed.

"Lie on the ground."

Now it comes, he thought. He hated that he feared the manner of his death. Would she slit his throat, or plunge a knife into his heart? He did not want to be slaughtered like an animal. If only he could fight back! He wanted to die like a soldier. Please, not like this.

She crouched beside his supine form. "I have no desire to harm you," she said. "Such a thing would not be worthy of me now, of who I have become. You have done no harm to me, and in truth, you have helped me achieve my life's desire. If there is any debt owed, it is I who owe you."

Her eyes glistened. Was she actually near to weeping?

"You said I did not understand mercy, and perhaps that was so. But I think I do understand it now. And even if I do not, I will at least follow the example that was shown to me.

"I give you your life back. Sleep now. I will hold you in my power until I am far from here, and then I will release my hold on you."

Balandrick could scarcely believe what he had heard. She was going to spare his life. He was going to live.

Just before he slipped into unconsciousness, he heard her say, "If I have brought harm or shame to you, I am sorry." Then he remembered no more.

25.

The Telir Osaran, the Valley of Wizards, looked the same to Gerin as it had when he'd left Hethnost several years earlier. The great wall of the Hammdras enclosing the mouth of the wide oval valley; the Tower of the Clouds and the Tower of Wind rising from the summits of the hills into which the Hammdras was anch.o.r.ed; the high, sheer cliff on the valley's far end, from which the Part.i.tion Rock protruded, a long ramplike spur that bisected about a third of the valley; the Kalabrendis Dhosa, the seldom used gathering hall, built upon the flattened summit of the Part.i.tion Rock; the towers of the Varsae Sandrova. All of it was unchanged.

But the familiarity was not particularly comforting. To his surprise, he found himself unnerved by the sight of Hethnost. His mood darkened as they drew closer to the Hammdras, and his heart quickened its pace. This was the place where he had stolen dark magic in order to learn the location of the Varsae Estrikavis. He'd been under a powerful compulsion placed upon him by a Neddari kamichi, but over the years, as he'd pondered his actions, he wondered if he would have behaved the same had the spell never existed.

He'd broken into the vaults below the Varsae Sandrova and stolen the book of spells and devices of magic of the Baryashin Order, a now extinct group of renegade wizards devoted to discovering a path to achieve eternal life by any means necessary.

Gerin had blown the Horn of Tireon to summon Naragenth's spirit from the grave. It was during this encounter with the spirit that he first heard of the Chamber of the Moon, but the spell had collapsed before Naragenth could tell him anything else.

The collapse of the spell had caused an imbalance between the worlds of the living and the dead. Not only did people in Osseria begin to die at random as the power of the world of the dead moved through this world like a black wind, but a spirit named Asankaru had come through the doorway as well. Asankaru was the Storm King of a long dead race of beings called the Eletheros, who were annihilated in a brutal act of genocide perpetrated by the Atalari, an act lost to history until Gerin and Reshel had seen a vision of the murder of the Eletheros atop the Sundering.

He sighed, and a pain gripped his heart. Reshel had died to give him the power he needed to return Asankaru to the realm of the dead and seal the doorway between the worlds.

It had all begun here.

"You look troubled," said Nyene.

"My memories of this place are not all good ones," he said. Would he have acted the same without the Neddari compulsion? He'd been so driven then. He ached to achieve some lasting greatness, and finding the first amber wizard's lost library seemed the perfect means to achieve that goal.

If I would have acted no differently, then Reshel's death is truly my fault. I can't blame it on the Neddari spell. Perhaps his father had been right to blame him as he had. The king might have had more insight than he'd given him credit for.

A gloom settled over Gerin that was not dispelled by the appearance of Seddon Rethazi, the steward of Hethnost. The old man's moustache was as thick as ever, though Gerin thought he detected a bit more stoop to his shoulders.

"h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo!" he said as he and a number of the Sunrise Guard approached them. "It's wonderful to see you, but I've had no word of your coming."

"We did not send word, Seddon," said Hollin. "We were not expecting to come here."

"I sense an interesting story behind this visit."

"Do you know where we can find the Archmage?" asked Abaru.

"I believe she is in her manor house." He took a quick count of everyone, then hurried off, barking orders about preparing rooms to a number of nearby servants.