He had no idea the gas stove in Steven and Mark's house continued to burn.

GREENTREE SQUARE.

Several hours had passed since the strange beasts had attacked the Malakasian horses, and neither Mark nor Steven had heard any sound coming from the lower floors of the palace, or outside their window. They had fled the first suite of rooms for another on the same hallway, hoping Sallax and the enemy soldiers would be too busy battling one another to find them.

Brynne, exhausted, had fallen asleep several minutes before, despite the afternoon heat. The two friends whispered to one another, trying not to wake her.

'You know what's funny?' Mark looked over at Brynne's silent form, then leaned back against the cool stone of the chamber wall.

'That a teenager who doesn't know the rules governing the use of a semi-colon will have Asian characters tattooed on her ass?' Steven replied, managing a smile.

'No, although that does stagger my imagination,' Mark chuckled. 'Think about it. We're here in another world. With two moons, it has has to be another world. We can look back as far as the pyramids at Giza, 2,500 BC, long before there was metallurgy or weaponry of this sophistication in Western Europe, and there is nothing that speaks of two moons.' He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts, then continued, 'And this language we've both apparently learned instantaneously, it's not a Western language and it's not a precursor to any modern European language. But these people appear to live in a culture similar to our early Europe. Their features, this architecture, some of their weapons and even their clothes: they all look like they fell right out of a history textbook.' to be another world. We can look back as far as the pyramids at Giza, 2,500 BC, long before there was metallurgy or weaponry of this sophistication in Western Europe, and there is nothing that speaks of two moons.' He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts, then continued, 'And this language we've both apparently learned instantaneously, it's not a Western language and it's not a precursor to any modern European language. But these people appear to live in a culture similar to our early Europe. Their features, this architecture, some of their weapons and even their clothes: they all look like they fell right out of a history textbook.'

'So, what's your point?' Steven asked. 'You don't think we came back in time. Great. I I don't believe that's possible. Hell, I don't believe don't believe that's possible. Hell, I don't believe any any of this is possible, but it's happened.' He absentmindedly ran one knuckle along a seam between two large stones in the masonry. of this is possible, but it's happened.' He absentmindedly ran one knuckle along a seam between two large stones in the masonry.

'For all the similarities, there are things missing, though,' Mark went on. 'Simple things, critical things we would expect to see in a culture that mirrors early Europe this closely.' Again, Mark glanced over at Brynne, but she still slept deeply. 'For example, every western culture dating back centuries has brewed coffee. Can you think of the Ronan word for coffee?'

Steven smiled. 'In the two days since I fell through an unexplained hole in the universe, located, ironically, in our living room, I have been nearly killed by a bowman sniper, imprisoned, lashed to a stone wall in a crumbling palace and threatened with ancient weapons. I have not, however, at any time during all this excitement, thought about the Ronan word for coffee.'

'Try it now,' Mark encouraged.

Steven closed his eyes and relaxed his mind. Ronan words came almost as easily as English for him now, but, despite his efforts, the word for coffee did not emerge. 'That's strange,' he said. 'I can't get it. I keep coming up with "tecan", but I don't think that's right.'

'I think that's more like some sort of herbal tea: jasmine-sleepytime-fruity-zinger tea or some such nonsense,' Mark replied, 'but I'm only guessing based on the information that magically appeared in my head when I landed on that beach.'

'You know what this means?'

'That our magic tapestry could possibly have brought people from our world to this world long before it brought us,' Mark said. 'I can't think of any other way aspects of this place would so closely resemble our world ... only a former former version of our world. Culture is a function of any group's values, traditions, beliefs, myths and behaviours. If cultural values, weapons technology and architecture from early Europe managed to get here, maybe the same way we arrived, those values and innovations might have embedded themselves in the fabric of Ronan life.' version of our world. Culture is a function of any group's values, traditions, beliefs, myths and behaviours. If cultural values, weapons technology and architecture from early Europe managed to get here, maybe the same way we arrived, those values and innovations might have embedded themselves in the fabric of Ronan life.'

'That's not what I meant,' Steven interrupted.

'What did did you mean?' Mark's analysis was sidetracked momentarily. you mean?' Mark's analysis was sidetracked momentarily.

'There's no coffee here. How in all hells are we going to get by without coffee?' He laughed. 'Give this up, Mark. You aren't going to figure it out trapped in this palace room. We'll need to get out of here to get home. Hopefully, the answer lies out there somewhere.'

'I guess you're right,' Mark agreed, 'but there has to be some reason why William Higgins locked that thing in your safe. He must have known about its power, and maybe how to harness it.'

'We'll figure it out,' his friend assured him, then changed the subject. 'Anyway, we can't stay here too long. Imagine a world without coffee; you'll perish. The staff at the cafe has our morning order memorised: one cappuccino and one just-fill-the-damned-cup-right-now-if-you-want-to-survive-another-minute. If we're here too long, you're a goner.'

'You're right, and we'll both be goners if we don't get out of this ramshackle pile of rocks and find some food. I haven't eaten since our last pizza.'

'I haven't either. Although this whole captive routine is an excellent excuse to avoid steamed vegetables and roasted fish.' Steven grimaced as he remembered their pledge to eat more nutritiously.

Mark stood up to take another look out the window. He peered towards the sun, checked his watch, shook it several times and held it to his ear. 'Let's get out of here, I haven't heard a sound from the palace in four hours.'

'You're right. Unless Sallax is waiting just outside that door, we ought to be able to get away.' Steven moved across the floor towards Brynne. Switching back to Ronan, he nudged her gently and called, 'Brynne, wake up. It's time to go.'

The curtains in the upper room of Mika Farrel's home remained closed as Gilmour Stow and the five partisans hurriedly planned their next course of action.

'We can't go back to the tavern,' Jerond offered. 'They'll have the place surrounded or burned to the ground by now.'

'Yes,' Sallax agreed, 'we have to assume they know who we are, so none of our homes are safe. Mika, Jerond, your parents should lay low for a while as well.' Brynne and Sallax's parents had died many Twinmoons earlier; Garec's family owned a farm half a day's ride from Estrad Village. Versen had moved to the southern forests from his family's home in the Blackstone Mountains: although he would try to get word to them, he was not worried about their immediate welfare.

'With the level of hatred for Malagon growing in Rona, they wouldn't dare murder four elderly people,' Sallax continued, 'but you ought to have them disappear for the time being just to be safe.'

Jerond and Mika nodded in agreement and Jerond rose to leave. 'I'll meet you in the orchard at dawn,' he told them. 'I can get some silver, and my father has a few weapons hidden in the house.' Jerond was the youngest of the partisans. He hesitated, obviously nervous. 'What are we going to do, Sallax?'

'We're going on a journey, north,' Gilmour interrupted. 'Bring some warm clothing, my boy, and don't worry. Things are moving along as they should, but let your family know they may not see you for the next few Twinmoons.'

Garec shot the older man a worried look, then turned back to Jerond and reminded him, 'The orchard at dawn tomorrow, all right?'

He nodded agreement, then crawled through a window at the back of the building, leaped to the ground below and disappeared along a side street into the village. Mika had been listening from the doorway. He quickly descended the stairs to share Gilmour's news with his parents.

'I worry about Jerond,' Garec told the older man. 'Now, what do you mean by several Twinmoons?'

'I mean exactly that.' Gilmour took a long draw on his pipe. 'We'll most likely be gone through next summer's Twinmoon. We have far to go, and not much time to get organised. Now, how many horses can we get before dawn tomorrow?'

'Plenty,' Garec answered. 'Renna is tethered out behind Madur's farm. He'd sell us a dozen if we can pay.' As if on cue, Gilmour reached into the folds of his riding cloak and withdrew a small leather pouch.

He tossed it to Garec. 'That should be enough. See to the horses, fill your quivers and meet us in the orchard tomorrow. We can't be seen together tonight. It would arouse too much suspicion.' Garec stood, gathered up his longbow and started towards the window as Gilmour added, 'Make sure you get three extra mounts.'

'Why? Madur's horses are strong enough to carry our gear and bedrolls as well as us,' Versen said.

'Brynne and the two foreigners will be joining us for this trip,' Gilmour answered, as if the reason were obvious. Garec snorted in disbelief, then crawled through the window himself.

'I'll need to get back to my cabin and gather a few things,' Versen said as he clapped a huge hand on Gilmour's shoulder. 'See you at dawn.'

Sallax gave the big man a quick wave and watched Versen disappear into the alley.

'What are we we to do?' Sallax asked Gilmour uncertainly. to do?' Sallax asked Gilmour uncertainly.

'We are going to give Namont his rites and then meet your sister,' Gilmour answered, rising from his chair. 'But I am not climbing out of that wretched window.' are going to give Namont his rites and then meet your sister,' Gilmour answered, rising from his chair. 'But I am not climbing out of that wretched window.'

Brexan watched the attractive merchant exit through the front door of the small house and move along the street as if he had lived there his entire life. She knew the man was a spy, but she didn't know why he had killed Lieutenant Bronfio. He had arranged for Bronfio's platoon to enter the dilapidated keep through the western portcullis, and he'd been waiting in the shadows for an opportunity to murder the young officer. But why?

Did he not serve Prince Malagon? Bronfio had been a by-the-book officer, Prince Malagon's man to the core. She was quite sure he had awakened every morning asking himself how he could best serve the occupation, and how to be the leader his prince expected him to be.

Bronfio often lectured his platoon on the importance of bringing a forceful but familiar occupation to the Ronan people. 'These citizens need predictability,' he had said again and again. 'That's our job, to be a powerful but steady and predictable occupation army. With that accomplished, we will need to put down fewer insurrections, mark me.'

Killing Bronfio did not make sense. It was essentially an act of war against the occupation forces in Rona. Brexan was determined to discover this traitor's nefarious purpose and bring him to justice but her goal was easier said than done. If she went back and forth through Estrad Village too frequently, someone would mark her uniform and ask why she was away from her unit. Disguise was the answer or at least some form of misdirection. While she waited, she stripped off her Malakasian tabards and markings. The result was not perfect: a black vest over a black tunic, each with regularly-shaped patches of a different colour where the badges had been, but it would give her time to find a change of clothes without interference from her colleagues.

Looking down at the array of torn patches and epaulettes on the ground at her feet, Brexan felt a wave of nausea pass through her, the unsettling feeling of uncertainty that comes in the wake of any drastic measure. 'Am I insane to do this?' Brexan asked herself. She would be hanged without trial simply for stripping her uniform, never mind deserting her unit to pursue an alleged traitor.

Some time after the spy entered the building, Brexan watched a young Ronan man, perhaps one hundred and forty Twinmoons old, go in the same door. She didn't expect to see him alive again.

When the spy exited a few moments later, she knew the Ronan and whomever he had been visiting were dead, victims of the handsome merchant. No one else had gone in or come out. Brexan checked that her sword was loose in its scabbard as she prepared to investigate. She forced herself to count slowly to two hundred before she left the alley, all the while watching the street to ensure the spy had not returned, and that he hadn't left others behind to note any activity around the house.

Then Brexan walked across the street and entered the home, trying to act as if she were a regular visitor. The sight that met her eyes made her shudder, not because of any outward signs of brutality, but because of the cold efficiency of the murders. The merchant had killed Lieutenant Bronfio earlier with a dagger between the ribs. His tactics here were equally simple. An elderly couple maybe the parents? sat bound and gagged in two chairs near a fireplace where a stewpot still simmered.

Both had been run through the heart; the Malakasian solider cringed when she thought of one being forced to watch, helpless, as the other was murdered. There were no signs of a struggle, but the old man's fingers appeared to have been broken, Brexan guessed during an impromptu interrogation maybe about his son's possible espionage activities? There were no bruises betraying harsh beatings and no other broken or severed limbs. The small puncture wounds made by a rapier, she thought and unchecked trickles of blood were the only evidence of death. She almost expected them to call out suddenly and beg her to untie their bonds.

Seeing them sitting so quietly together, in what had probably been their favourite chairs, Brexan imagined the old couple spending thousands of avens chatting together in front of the fireplace, planning their lives, teaching their children, entertaining dear friends. All that was over and for what?

Then she noticed the young man who had come in while she was watching the doorway. He had obviously been killed without fanfare as well: his short sword was still sheathed. There had been no combat, no questions, no broken fingers and no negotiations for life. The spy had waited for the young man to return home and slashed his throat while the boy gaped at his parents' bodies trussed up like pigs awaiting a butcher. Brexan knew this victim had been taken by surprise, unceremoniously and without a struggle.

She seethed with anger. This was not how an occupation force was supposed to behave, and if this was the method Prince Malagon's spies employed to gather information, she did not want any part of their cause. Her stomach roiling with revulsion, she climbed a short flight of stairs, located the young man's bedroom and stole a change of clothes. She was no longer a member of Prince Malagon's occupation army. Lieutenant Bronfio had believed in their work here in Rona and he was dead, murdered by his own prince's spy.

Brexan had enlisted in the army to bring order to the nations of Eldarn. Periodically, that meant dealing with a handful of insurrectionists. This elderly couple, tied up and cold-bloodedly murdered in their home, did not represent a threat to Prince Malagon's throne, and if for some inexplicable reason they had, the spy who uncovered their plot should have brought them to trial.

Her illusions fading like the twilight, Brexan changed into her new clothes, took what food she could find in the pantry and promised the silent corpses that justice would be done.

She would find this spy, track him and observe his behaviour. If he proved loyal to the crown, she would find some way to report his brutality to the prince's generals in Orindale. If he were not loyal, she would kill him herself.

'So what the hell were those monsters that attacked the horses?' Mark asked Brynne as they walked towards Estrad Village. She ignored him, staring silently into the distance.

'C'mon Brynne. I told you we never had any intention of hurting you. We just needed you to get away from the palace.'

Mark reached out for her, but she immediately turned away, 'Don't touch me.'

'Leave her alone, Mark,' Steven suggested in English. 'She's not going to help us. Let's just let her go.'

'I think we ought to hang onto her. She's the only one who's even bothered to try talking to us. Everyone else just starts shooting.'

'There was that old man,' Steven said, switching to Ronan. 'He seemed to know we aren't spies.'

'Gilmour,' Brynne muttered.

'Gilmour,' Steven echoed, as if trying out the name. 'How do you suppose he knew we weren't from Malakasia?'

Brynne appeared more willing to answer Steven. 'He knows many things the rest of us don't understand. We're lucky to have him with us,' she said quietly.

'He's the leader of your group?' Mark tried again. 'He's organising the Resistance?'

'There has been little resistance yet,' she answered, still refusing to look at Mark, 'but there has been too much oppression and murder. One day, hopefully soon, we will fight to rid our land of Malagon's army, and perhaps even succeed in freeing all the lands from his occupation forces.'

'All the lands?' Steven enquired.

'Rona, Praga, Falkan and Gorsk, four of the lands of Eldarn. Malakasia has occupied our homeland since Prince Markon died, nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons ago.' She pulled at a strand of hair that had fallen across her face. 'There was a terrible fire at Riverend Palace ... you saw the damage it did, even though it was so long ago. And within the space of two Twinmoons, the royal families of Praga, Falkan and Rona had all been wiped out by a strange disease. Even today no one has any idea what caused it.'

'What about Gorsk?' Mark asked.

'Gorsk has never been ruled by a royal family the way the rest of Eldarn is. King Remond controlled all of Eldarn except Gorsk, and his descendants all taking the title prince or princess took on the different lands; Markon, King Remond's great-grandson, ruled here in Rona.' She cast a sidelong glance at Mark and continued, 'Gorsk was different: it was ruled by a congress of scholars called the Larion Senate. Legend has it they were all murdered in a grievous massacre a Moon before the fire that took the lives of Prince Markon's wife, son and closest advisor.'

'Why govern Gorsk differently?' Steven pushed down on a sapling branch to clear a path for Brynne. 'Why no prince or princess of Gorsk?'

'The Larions had magic.' Brynne paused, recognising the scepticism in their faces. 'They used magic to bring scholarship, medicine and education to the known world. They were a community of servants, brilliant servants, who brought advanced knowledge and research to our hospitals and universities. Their genocide was the first in a long series of tragedies that destroyed the political and social structure of Eldarn. Nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons later, here we are, an occupied nation surrounded by occupied nations.'

Checking his watch again, Mark said, 'You keep mentioning the Twinmoon. Is that what we saw yesterday, the two moons lining up over the ocean?'

'That's right,' she answered. 'That alignment occurs about every sixty days, one Twinmoon. We use them to chart time, our lives, the seasons. Gilmour sometimes talks of Eras and Ages, but we've got no idea what he means. We have a difficult enough time keeping track of what day it is.'

Looking between his watch and the sun, Mark said, 'Now that you mention it, I don't think a day here is the same as ours, unless my watch is broken.'

'Watch?' Finally she turned to look at him.

'Yeah, my watch.' He held out his wrist. 'It's a simple machine that tells what time of day it is.'

'Why call it a watch? Does it only work when you watch it?'

'No,' he answered as Steven laughed. 'I suppose a more accurate name for it would be timepiece. Look, it now reads four in the afternoon, and here in Rona it's already growing dark. I believe your day has fewer-' He stopped. There was no Ronan word for hour.

'I think you're right,' Steven interjected. 'I noticed this morning it seemed to get light much later than at home.'

Now it was Brynne who was sceptical. 'I don't know if I should believe you. This may be some elaborate ruse to get me to reveal details of the Resistance. It won't work.'

Mark removed his watch and handed it to her. 'Here, take it. It isn't doing me any good anyway.'

Cautiously, Brynne reached out and took the watch. 'How does it attach?' Mark fastened the band and after a rudimentary lesson in telling time, they continued walking.

'Thank you, Mark Jenkins.' Brynne smiled for the first time all day.

'Just Mark is fine, Brynne. Just Mark.'

The trio continued their journey towards the village, bypassing the road for a narrow path through oak, maple, dogwood, walnut and chestnut trees that were interrupted periodically by a particularly prickly and disagreeable type of cedar marked by thin strands of exfoliated bark. There were other trees as well, trees that didn't belong in this sort of forest: white birch, rosewood, beech, and several species Steven couldn't identify.

Steven had many questions for Brynne now that she was willing to talk with them, and the young woman complied as well as she could. So little about this experience made sense; Steven was surprised at how well he and Mark were handling their predicament. Magicians at work, huge ravenous beasts stalking the forest, a battle raging through a crumbling palace and all of it happening around them while he and Mark looked on: Steven felt as though he had fallen headlong into someone else's dream. Now he was trapped. While the story grew ever more peculiar, he was helpless, unable to grasp, let alone solve, the problems that faced them. All he and Mark could do was to continue walking towards town and hope they would find someone someone with the knowledge to get them back through that mysterious tapestry and into their living room. with the knowledge to get them back through that mysterious tapestry and into their living room.

Rona's southern region felt more like a bayou wetland than a Colorado mountain forest and the two foreigners were sweating openly. Hunger and dehydration were giving Steven tunnel vision. 'I need to eat something,' he said, 'and soon.'

'You're right,' Mark agreed. 'I could eat health food, I'm so hungry.' Turning to Brynne, he asked, 'Is there somewhere we can find something to eat nearby?'

Brynne contemplated her choices for a moment before replying, 'Greentree Tavern. It's not far.' She knew Greentree Square would be packed with Malakasian soldiers, all searching for the band of revolutionaries, but she hoped the confusion that would ensue when she brought the strangers into town would give her an opportunity to escape.

'This tavern,' Mark asked, 'is it safe?'

'It ought to be ... I own it.'

'You own a bar?' Steven was incredulous. Brynne nodded. 'Your own bar?' he repeated. 'Where were you when I went to college?'

'How late is the kitchen open?' Mark said, almost drooling at the thought of hot food and cold beer even though he had no intention of going anywhere the young woman suggested once they reached the village.

'Late enough,' she said, coyly returning his smile. She resolutely continued her forced march, all the while considering how she might escape from the two foreigners. She hoped against hope that Sallax and her friends had survived the assault on the palace and would be waiting to ambush her captors somewhere between Riverend and Estrad.