"Where are you?" Myranda called into the darkness.

"Here. Why? Planning to put a knife in my back? It would be the most honest thing you've done in your wretched life," the priest hissed.

"I am going to let you out. It is pitch black and-" she whispered.

"The door stays closed, witch," he whispered angrily.

"I am trying to free you," she whispered urgently, finding her way to the door. When she tried to fit the key into the hole, a quick hand swiped it away.

"I am a priest. It is my place to forgive. But I will not owe you. Now go, or I will keep the key and you will never escape this place with your life. Free the others if you choose, but as far as I am concerned these bars are here to protect me from you," he warned.

"If that is what you wish," she said.

Another time she would have demanded that he come with her, but time was short. Other captives in other cells began to realize that Myranda had escaped and were calling for freedom. She remembered from her trip through with Trigorah that a torch was on either side of the stairway of each floor. Stumbling through the dark as best she could, she found her way to one and lit it. The mystic effort was enough to rob her of her balance. It was the last spell that she would cast without pa.s.sing out. In the flickering light she saw dozens of sets of arms reaching pleadingly out to her. Taking the torch in the palm of her badly bleeding right hand, she made her way to each door, quickly unlocking them. The prisoners ran, only freedom on their minds. Only a few had been freed when three nearmen appeared in the stairway, blocking their way. Myranda worked furiously at unlocking more doors. She had stopped thinking of her own escape long ago. She simply had to release these people. It was her fault that they were here.

Suddenly, one of the nearmen was upon her. The other two, scarcely visible at the edge of the torch's light, waved swords to keep back the men and women already free. The fiend before Myranda chose its gauntleted hands, likely on orders from Epidime not to kill her. She waved the torch at the guard, causing it to step back. The silent, faceless brute raised a hand to strike her. Myranda stumbled away from the bars, barely dodging the blow. The attacker turned to face her and raised both fists for a hammer blow. A pair of powerful hands leapt from the darkness between the bars, seizing the guard by the face mask. A swift pull bashed the armored nearman's head into the bars, then again, and again. Finally the hands released him and the guard crumbled to the ground. The light of the torch revealed Myranda's rescuer. It had been months since she had seen him, but even without his decrepit armor she recognized the mountain of a man.

"Tus!" she cried, unlocking the cell as another of the guards rushed over.

Tus, a significant member of a rebellious group called the Undermine who had helped Myranda in the past, whipped the door open with all of his might. It smashed the charging nearman and dropped him to the ground. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the sword that the first nearman had refused to use and ran to the remaining guard. With a trio of clumsy, overly powerful strikes, the nearman fell. There was a dull surge of light and the nearman seemed to collapse into a wisp of dust, leaving only a pile of caved in armor. A swift plunge of his sword into the chest of the other two nearmen brought about the same effect. Whatever these things were, they were not natural.

"This way. Caya is here. We will find her. You will free her," he said, more a statement of fact than a request or an order.

"I have to free everyone," Myranda said, opening another door. Tus grabbed the old man who ran from inside by the shirt.

"You will take the keys from the dead guard and unlock all of these cells or I will cut your arms off," remarked Tus.

The terrified old man nodded vigorously and turned quickly to the task. Tus turned to a woman who had witnessed the threat, fetched the keys from another downed guard and tossed them to her.

"You will follow us. You will open all of the cells we pa.s.s," he added.

Fearing that what had happened to the guards would happen to her, the woman agreed. Myranda, though far from pleased with the method, accepted the result and agreed to follow Tus. Each floor brought another pair of guards. With a crowd of escaped prisoners to distract them, Tus seldom had much difficultly in dispatching them, leaving behind piles of ruined armor and motes of dust. Each defeated guard provided another set of keys and another terrified escapee was pressed into duty. Torches were lit, floors were emptied. Total chaos reigned. It was not until they reached the second to last floor, freeing all in their path, that the cell containing Caya was found.

The strong young woman within the cell had been the leader of the Undermine, and even after what must have been ages of imprisonment, the keen edge of defiance had not left her eyes.

"Myranda! I knew when I saw you that things would soon change! You are a G.o.dsend!" Caya declared, s.n.a.t.c.hing a sword from Tus' latest conquest and looking dejectedly for a foe that would not come.

"You aren't angry? You are here because of me," Myranda said, confused that no apology had been demanded of her.

"I would have eventually found my own way to a place like this. But thanks to you dozens of others did!" she said excitedly.

"I don't understand," Myranda said.

"No one believes what the army is capable of. What this war has turned us into! These people will be angry, hurt, disillusioned, and they will have nowhere to turn. That is the recipe for an Undermine Soldier. Our ranks will be doubled! And I have you to thank," Caya said.

"But weren't you tortured?" Myranda asked.

"Not for more than a few minutes, if you call that interview in the chair torture. In fact, once you were brought in, that fellow with the halberd ordered these beastly guards to feed us better. He said he wanted us healthy and full of life," she said.

Myranda shuddered. Epidime had wanted them to be healthy when he killed them. He wanted their deaths to cause all the more pain to Myranda when he finally won.

"Let us go. If Tus left anyone for me to kill, I will see to it that you are not touched until we have made good our escape," Caya declared.

"No! I can't go with you," Myranda said.

"But you must!" Caya said.

"No. They may not want you as a captive anymore, but Epidime has a personal vendetta against me," Myranda said. "We are both better off if I am alone."

"Fine then, but we will meet again," Caya said.

"You will be my wife," Tus stated.

For a moment the trio was silent.

"You already have a wife, Tus. Henna, remember?" Caya reminded him.

"You will be my new wife," Tus amended.

"Move, Tus. We've got recruiting to do," Caya said.

Tus agreed and the pair hurried back up the stairs. The fort had maintained a full complement of nearmen. They were vicious soldiers to be sure, but a frenzied mob that outnumbered them ten to one was more than they could handle. In minutes the heavy doors were forced open and prisoners had run off in every direction. No more than ten guards survived the chaos. These survivors took up arms and searched the fort thoroughly. The other prisoners were nothing, but Myranda would have to be found. When every cell and the whole of the courtyard had been scoured, the nearmen took to the surrounding fields. All that had been found was a trail of blood drops leading to a discarded torch near the doors. Hundreds of trails would have to be followed to their end. Myranda would be found. The soldiers marched into the setting sun on foot, the horses taken by the first of the prisoners.

For several minutes there was no sound but the wind, and no motion at all. Finally, there was a stir in a dark corner. In the stable, little more than a simple shed beside the stronghold, Myranda struggled to push aside a feed tray filled with oats and crawled from her hiding place. She made her way to the water trough, broke the layer of ice on top and scooped greedily at the water. When her thirst was slaked she turned reluctantly to the oats. She needed some sort of food. Raw oats would have to do. Reaching into the tray, suddenly she felt a cold, sharp, familiar sensation against her neck. A blade.

"Don't try to look. Where is the girl?" a harsh whisper demanded.

Myranda hadn't the energy to be afraid.

"You've found her," she answered, defeated and too tired to panic.

"Myranda?!" came a voice she recognized.

"Desmeres?" she said, turning weakly when the blade was removed.

"You caused all of this? What sort of a damsel in distress manages to escape on her own?" he said with a laugh of disbelief.

Desmeres was dressed in a white hooded robe with a white bag slung across his back. In one hand was a knife, the other held a much bulkier sack. The contents of the sack seemed to be churning violently.

"Desmeres, you can't turn me in again, I need to warn . . . " Myranda began, her voice wavering.

"I am not here to put you back in, I am here to get you out," he said, helping her to her feet and leading her to a window. "Did you lose weight? You feel lighter than . . . oh my heavens . . . Myranda, if I didn't know it had only been a few weeks since you left us, I would swear it had been five hard years."

In the light he could see the results of the captivity. She was visibly thinner, pale, and ragged. Her clothes, hands, and face were smudged with dirt. Her right hand was clenched in a white knuckled grip around a wad of her tunic surrounded by a growing red stain. Every word was slurred, and she seemed on the verge of unconsciousness.

"Is Lain here?" she asked, worried.

"He ought to be. I . . . " he answered.

"And Myn?" she interrupted.

"Tied up in the sack. We were . . . " he attempted.

"Why?" she thwarted.

"She couldn't go with Lain, she won't listen to me, and I didn't want to leave her alone," he blurted before she could interrupt again.

"Why are you helping me to escape?" she asked.

"They didn't come through with the full price. Just a bit more than half," Desmeres said dismissively. "Myranda, what did they do to you in there?"

"Why would they . . . They know! Desmeres, tell me, where is Lain?" she demanded, suddenly with an urgency that cut through her weariness.

"The plan was for me to create a distraction long enough for him to slip over the wall and inside. I was weighing possibilities when that mayhem started, which we both agreed was a bit more distraction than we had hoped for. He had to wait until the guards went off high alert, then slipped over the back wall. Presumably he is still inside. Why?" he asked.

"They've been trying to get into my head. They know he is Chosen. They will try to capture him, or kill him, I'm not sure. That has to be why they didn't pay the full price. They knew he would come back to get me! We need to find him!" she said.

"Relax, Myranda, relax. Lain and I have been at this for a very long time. I am not so naive as to a.s.sume that this was a regrettable accounting error. We are prepared for every contingency. Now, I have some food here. I think you should eat something," Desmeres said, concern in his voice as he removed the bag from his back and began rummaging though it. Outside, the wind began to gust.

"Not now! I will not be responsible for another person being locked away in this place! We will find him and we will escape!" Myranda said.

A shadow darkened the doorway, drawing her attention. It was Lain, holding the bag Myranda had been carrying when she arrived.

"The sword isn't here," Lain said, similarly dressed. He tossed the bag to her feet.

"Lain! You have to leave this place! Run!" she said.

"That is the plan," Desmeres agreed. "But first, Myranda, open your hand."

"I am not hungry!" Myranda said, lying through her teeth for the sake of a quicker escape.

"But you are bleeding. Open up," he said, removing a thin gla.s.s vial from the bag.

She held the nasty looking injury out. Desmeres snapped the vial. Instantly Myranda felt as though he had poured boiling lead into her palm. She gasped and pulled it back.

"I am afraid that is supposed to happen. I am not particularly skilled at healing potions," Desmeres apologized.

When the pain subsided, Myranda opened her hand to see that the injury was closed, though the dried remnants of it still stained her palm. A moment later the trio stepped tentatively into the fading light of the courtyard. All was still. They approached the doors, still open from the mob's escape. Lain held out an arm signaling the others to stop. He took a long, slow deliberate whiff of the air. A hint of concern came to his face.

"Not satisfied?" Desmeres asked.

"This wind. It is circling around us. It isn't bringing me anything useful," he said, scanning the horizon with his eyes.

"Perhaps there is nothing to smell," Desmeres offered.

In response Lain locked his eyes on a spot in the distance, his hands moving to the hilt of his sword. Whatever it was, it was approaching from the air, and very quickly. Between the fort and the nearest cover was a field of snow and ice. Lain alone might have succeeded in reaching it before the form in the sky was upon them.

Deacon ran to the small hut at the edge of the village where they housed their prophet. A pair of apprentices, one an older man and the other a young woman, were sitting inside. They were both clearly desperate for a distraction from their painfully dull a.s.signment. The winded young wizard who burst through the door was thus a welcome sight to them.

"Master Deacon, is there something wrong?" the woman asked.

"No, no. I have come to relieve you Mera, and you Karr," he said, slowly regaining his breath.

"Oh!" Mera, the woman proclaimed excitedly, but drooped as a thought occurred to her. "But I've six more hours in my shift. And Karr has three."

"I believe I have the seniority necessary to give you your freedom a few hours early," he said.

The pair was quite happy to have the afternoon returned. Neither was so foolish as to ask why one of the usually self interested Masters would take such a fruitless job. Nor did they stop to mention the policy that at least two witnesses be present when monitoring the prophet. When they had left, Deacon positioned a chair before Hollow and sat. The old, frail figure showed no signs of life. His head hung limply down, his hands and arms clearly posed into some semblance of comfort. He gazed with the faded, cloudy eyes of a corpse. Despite all of this, Deacon could not help but offer a few moments of reverent silence. Finally, after a deep breath, he spoke.

"Hollow. Your connection to the spirits is unparalleled. I know that you only speak when the spirits direct it, but there is a matter of great concern at hand," he said.

The fragile figure sat motionless.

"I have been using my own limited skills to monitor a woman you spoke to directly during your last recitation. She appears to be in danger. I do not have the capacity to see for certain what is in store for her. I beseech you, oh great prophet, to speak on her behalf. Tell of her place on the path. Tell what the fates have planned for her," he said.

Silence.

"If I have read your predictions correctly, she could have a vital role in bringing the Chosen together. If she is in danger, the very prophesy may be in danger," he offered.

Silence.

"Listen to me . . . Tober," he spoke quietly, invoking the name that Hollow had once been called. "If there is anything left of you, you must believe me. I must know about her."

Silence.

"d.a.m.n it, old man! Listen!" Deacon cried, leaping up and hoisting Hollow from the chair by his tunic. It was like lifting a scarecrow. "I need to know! I need to know if she will be all right! I need to know that she will come back to us! That she will come back to me! This world cannot survive without her! I cannot survive without her! Speak! SPEAK!"

Withered fingers suddenly wrapped around his neck and he was wrenched into the air. Deacon grasped the old man's wrist and gasped for breath.

The forms in the sky grew nearer.

"Myranda, I think you and I had best slip inside until the threat pa.s.ses," Desmeres suggested.

"I am not going back in there," Myranda said, pulling her staff and dagger from her bag.

The moment she touched the staff, a clarity she forgotten she could achieve seeped slowly into her mind. She was still weak, but she at least could think.

"Give me Myn," she demanded.

"Now is not the best time for a reunion. There is something on the way, and the only reason anything would be headed to this G.o.dforsaken place so quickly would be to kill one or more of us," Desmeres pointed out as he reluctantly lowered the bag to the ground.

"If there is fighting to be done, I don't want her to be helpless," Myranda said, cutting the bonds.

Myn instantly was on top of her, lavishing weeks of affection all at once. Myranda toppled to the ground.