'Or a parent beating a child, or a thief murdering an elderly woman. These are all evil acts acts, but they are not evil itself. No, this is our problem: evil itself does does exist, and it has been trapped for much of the existence of this world. It has, from time to time, been able to slip one of its minions into our world, or into Steven and Mark's world. And its minions are tiny. They are notions of evil, and they bring unbelievable havoc every time they manage to escape. And in all of our recorded history, no one has been able to successfully trap and exorcise one of evil's minions. exist, and it has been trapped for much of the existence of this world. It has, from time to time, been able to slip one of its minions into our world, or into Steven and Mark's world. And its minions are tiny. They are notions of evil, and they bring unbelievable havoc every time they manage to escape. And in all of our recorded history, no one has been able to successfully trap and exorcise one of evil's minions.

'And it is one of these minions that controls Nerak and, in turn, Malagon today. Its goal, like every other that has managed to escape, is to open a path for the essence of all things evil to come unencumbered from its prison inside the Fold.'

'What's the Fold?' Brynne asked, slyly checking to see if Mark was as enthralled with Gilmour's story as she was. Versen and Sallax had slowed their horses to a walk so they too would not miss a single word.

'The Fold is the space between everything that is known and unknown. It is the absence of perception, and therefore the absence of reality. Nothing exists there except evil, because the original architects of our universe could not avoid creating it. It was a negative thought, a simple flash of anger or frustration, as insignificant as an ant on a hillside, but it happened. Evil was born and with every negative thought, every angry gesture most of which were directed at evil's essence by the creators themselves it grew more powerful.

'Steven and Mark came across the Fold when they fell through the far portal into Rona-' Gilmour broke off for a moment, then clarified, 'actually, they didn't come across the Fold per se. Instead, they navigated through a window window in the Fold, that pinprick in the fabric of the universe Lessek was able to find and control. in the Fold, that pinprick in the fabric of the universe Lessek was able to find and control.

'When Lessek found his pathway, he created an opening, and it was through that Nerak eventually allowed a minion of evil's essence to come to Eldarn. Arriving here, it immediately diversified into the millions of thoughts and ideas people we we construe as evil. It varies wildly: for one person, evil may be murdering another, while someone else may consider lying to a friend is evil. construe as evil. It varies wildly: for one person, evil may be murdering another, while someone else may consider lying to a friend is evil.

'So you see, this minion can exist anywhere, inside any living thing that knows what it means to be evil. For some reason, this notion of evil chose the Malakasian royal family. I am not certain why.'

Steven swallowed hard and asked the question everyone feared. 'What would happen if one of these minions managed to open the Fold for the essence of evil ... this vagrant afterthought of the gods or whatever it is ... to escape?'

'Nothing would survive,' Gilmour answered calmly. 'Perhaps even matter itself would come apart. It would take only an instant and we would all be gone. Everything horrifying we've ever imagined would become a reality, and then be torn asunder as quickly and irretrievably as we would.'

'How close has it come to succeeding?' Versen asked.

'It knows what Nerak knew and that is that the collective genius of the Larion Senate exists in Lessek's spell table. Without Lessek's Key, the spell table cannot be accessed, not even by a Larion as powerful as Nerak.'

Gilmour paused to refill his pipe with the aromatic Falkan tobacco before continuing, 'With the key, Nerak might be able to trace Lessek's original strategy and enlarge the opening in the Fold enough to allow his evil master to escape.'

'I thought Malagon Nerak already had the key.' Mark was confused. 'Otherwise why would we be going to Welstar Palace to find it?' He glanced across at Brynne who quickly looked away, embarrassed at having been caught staring at him twice in one morning. Mark turned back to Gilmour. 'If Nerak had this key for nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons, why hasn't he gone to Sandcliff Palace and used this spell table thing to release the evil essence on the universe? Can't he do that himself?'

'It's much more difficult than that, Mark,' the older man explained. 'Lessek was enormously powerful, much more powerful than Nerak could ever be, and Nerak knows this. He might begin working with Lessek's spell table and find he accidentally seals the gods' evil creation in the Fold for ever. There's a comprehensive collection of magic and mystical knowledge encoded in that spell table. The Larion Senate was never able to master more than a fraction of its potential. If Nerak taps its power and releases evil on the world, he risks destroying himself in the process. No, I imagine Nerak would keep Lessek's Key as well protected and hidden from mankind as possible. He will want it somewhere it will neither be found, nor be out of his possession.

'Nerak has time on his side. He has nothing but but time: he can study the magic in the Larion spell table until he has discovered all he needs. When he has learned all that he, Nerak the possessor of souls, rather than he, Nerak the Larion Senator, ever knew, he will take Lessek's Key back to Sandcliff and endeavour to release his new master on all of us.' time: he can study the magic in the Larion spell table until he has discovered all he needs. When he has learned all that he, Nerak the possessor of souls, rather than he, Nerak the Larion Senator, ever knew, he will take Lessek's Key back to Sandcliff and endeavour to release his new master on all of us.'

'Oh God, no.' Steven barely whispered the words, but Gilmour heard him and looked over expectantly.

'Are you okay, my boy?' he asked. 'I wouldn't worry about these things today. It's been nine hundred and eighty Twin-moons and the rutting horsecock hasn't been able to figure it out yet. We still have some time.'

'Tell me how Lessek's spell table works.' Steven chose his words carefully.

'Well, the table is just that, a table, carved from a granite block quarried deep in the Remondian Mountains of northern Gorsk. Lessek himself is said to have constructed it over several Twinmoons.' Gilmour stopped and checked the position of the sun in the morning sky.

'The key fits in a particular slot carved into the tabletop,' he went on. 'When it's in place the table transfigures from a stone surface to a bottomless pool of knowledge and mysticism. Much of the knowledge is powerful fiercely independent and without proper training and practice, it will leap out or, worse, pull you inside. Nerak never understood the intricacies of the table. He was attempting to work with it when the minion escaped and claimed his soul for all time. He had gone too far. He had planned to use the table to overthrow us, but instead his plan backfired and he was taken first.'

Steven and Garec spoke simultaneously; their words had such an impact on the rest of the small company that each rider reined in and turned to stare back at them in stunned silence. Together, in a nearly incoherent marriage of two simple phrases, Garec and Steven changed the course of all their lives.

Garec, in surprise, turned towards Gilmour and cried, 'You said overthrow "us",' while Steven shouted, 'I have Lessek's Key.'

There was a pregnant pause which seemed to last an hour. Then everyone spoke at once.

'What do you mean, you have Lessek's Key?' Sallax asked.

'Gilmour, why did you refer to the Larion Senate as "us"?' Garec repeated. 'How could you have been there?'

The air was buzzing with cries of, 'What did you mean by that?' 'How can that be?' and 'I don't understand.' After several moments of noisy confusion, Gilmour held a hand above his head in an effort to silence the group and restore order to the discussion.

When they had calmed enough for him to be heard, Gilmour called, 'Please, everyone, please.' They quieted further and he continued, 'I'll answer a couple of important questions, but then I must insist we push on. We have far to go before making camp tonight. Once we're settled we can spend as much time as necessary talking this through, but right now we are in great danger.'

He turned first to Steven, his face alight with anticipation. 'But before we take one more step, we need to hear from you, my boy.' Trying to control the emotion in his voice, Gilmour asked, 'How is it that you suddenly believe you have Lessek's Key?'

Steven inhaled slowly and explained, 'I knew it when you said the evil minion controlling Nerak would put the key in a safe place until it had enough time to master the spell table in Sandcliff Palace.'

'That's right. Why does that make a difference now?' Everyone was hanging on Steven's every word.

'Nerak put it in my bank with the far portal. The key is in a box on my desk in Idaho Springs.' Even though Steven had no idea what Lessek's Key looked like, he was willing to bet William Higgins' stone was the missing piece of the Larion spell table.

'That rock,' Mark added under his breath.

'That's right,' Steven agreed, 'it has to be that rock.'

'It is a small stone,' Gilmour explained, 'about one hand across, and dark, like the land's deepest granite.'

Versen and Sallax exchanged worried glances while Brynne sat transfixed by the conversation between her new friends and her old mentor.

'Damnit,' Mark interjected. 'Now we have to get back there and get that stone before this Malagon-Nerak-minion character manages to figure out your old spell table.' He was growing angry and frustrated.

'You did it too,' Garec pointed accusingly at Mark. 'You called it "his" spell table.' He gestured angrily at Gilmour.

Mark's mistake didn't get by Brynne, either. 'Gilmour, what have you told them that we don't know? How is it you're so familiar with the Larion Senate? You speak about them as if you were there.'

Gilmour looked at Brynne and Garec with all the pride and affection of a grandfather. 'Because I was there. I am one of the two surviving Larion Senators in Eldarn.'

'How can that be?' Versen asked, bewildered. 'That would make you nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons old.'

Gilmour laughed, a bellow that shook his frame. 'I remember nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons, Versen. I remember it fondly. No, I guess I'm about twice that old.' And before any of his incredulous friends could interrupt again, he added, 'Let's keep moving, please. We've learned a lot this morning but nothing that alters our final destination. We have many days' travel in front of us and we won't get anywhere sitting here sharing revelations.'

They rode on in silent disbelief, the southernmost edge of the Ronan piedmont rolling along beneath their mounts. A midday meal was taken in the saddle to avoid another break; everyone even Mark, who was still bitterly uncomfortable was content to continue riding through the day. On several occasions, one or more of them tried to make small talk, but those efforts invariably collapsed. Until Gilmour explained more fully, no one would be quite comfortable.

Despite the palpable wariness that hung over the company, Versen set a brisk pace through the forest. Bouncing uncomfortably along, Mark once again started counting the minutes until they would stop for the night. His riding skills had improved since the previous day, but he still pined for a less painful form of travel.

After the midday aven, Versen's horse flushed a pair of grouse that exploded into the air in a startling blur of dark brown feathers. Watching them fly through the trees, Garec saw the birds land in a sun-dappled clearing just off the trail. He and Versen dismounted and stalked the birds through the brush, catching and killing both.

Returning from the underbrush, Garec held one of the limp feathered corpses aloft and called to Gilmour, 'We've filled your dinner order, my exceedingly old friend.'

Brynne chuckled nervously at his attempt at levity.

Gilmour smiled in response to the teasing and happily stuffed the bird into his saddlebag. 'It appears I will have to learn to appreciate old-age jokes now that my secret is out.'

Garec jumped back astride Renna and, glad for the break in the tension, asked, 'So, are the stories of farming in Falkan and working with loggers in Praga all lies to cover up your true identity?'

'Of course not,' Gilmour answered. 'My farm produced one of the finest tobacco crops in Falkan, and I can still strip and ride a log down the river with the best. I've had a long life since the massacre at Sandcliff Palace. Granted, much of what I have chosen to do has been out of necessity to hide from the bounty hunters sent from Welstar Palace to kill me. But I've enjoyed all my occupations over the Twinmoons since I fled Gorsk.'

'Bounty hunters?' Mika asked warily.

'Yes, hideous fellows mostly.' Gilmour brushed an imagined insect away from his face. 'They have been hunting me since Prince Draven of Malakasia died nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons ago. His son, Marek, was the first to send assassins out after me. I can't say for certain, but I believe Marek was the first of the Malakasians to be taken, mind and body, by Nerak. He was just a boy at the time, and a pleasant one too, before all this happened. I imagine Nerak hid Lessek's Key and the far portal in Colorado before returning to ravage the royal families of Eldarn.'

'What happened that night at Sandcliff Palace?' Mika looked frightened, as if the answer might conjure up even more danger for them to deal with.

Gilmour chuckled amiably and tried to put them all at ease. 'I'll make you a deal, Mika. You roast these birds and that rabbit Garec bagged this morning. We'll open a couple of skins of Garec's wine and I'll tell you all about it. There's a clearing on the river about an aven further north of here, a protected cove where we can camp safely for the night.'

Taking his cue, Versen spurred his horse and led the company further north towards the Blackstone Mountains and the Falkan border.

WELSTAR PALACE, MALAKASIA.

Torches hanging in sconces dimly lit the stone walls of the narrow passageways in Welstar Palace. Soldiers of the palace garrison lined the halls leading from Prince Malagon's royal apartments to his audience chamber in the north wing. Each warrior was clad in the uniform of the Malakasian Home Guard, with the prince's crest on a thick leather breastplate draped over a chain-mail vest. Black leather boots were laced tightly over dark leggings and flowing hooded cloaks made the platoon look more like students of holy writ than highly trained defenders of the prince. Beneath the folds of each cloak, Malagon's soldiers were armed with broadswords or longbows.

There had not been an assault on Welstar Palace in nearly a thousand Twinmoons, but the Home Guard took their preparation and daily drills seriously. Officers in the garrison demanded nothing less than slavish and obsequious obedience from every soldier posted at Welstar Palace. Many had never seen their prince, but each was happy to die in Malagon's defence if necessary. To be stationed at Welstar Palace was deemed a great honour by Malakasian men and women, and most occupation soldiers dreamed of the day they would be ordered home to safeguard Eldarn's supreme monarch. Most did not realise that Prince Malagon rarely left his apartments. His generals and admirals met regularly to discuss the ongoing needs of occupation forces around Eldarn, but the prince rarely joined them.

Instead, he spent days on end meditating in the dark recesses of his chambers. Food was sent up from the palace kitchens, yet his guards spoke in hushed tones of elaborately prepared meals going untouched. Rumours abounded that the prince did not require food for sustenance.

On this night, Malagon had sent word of his intention to meet with his military council: he had a change in policy he planned to implement throughout Eldarn. As his closest advisors waited in his audience chamber, uncomfortable in dress uniform, they chatted nervously about the state of the occupation and the efficiency with which their respective military branches operated. Admiral Kuvar Arenthorn, from the northern coast, appeared to be particularly nervous at meeting the prince: sweat beaded his brow and dampened his armpits as he twittered on anxiously about Malakasia's naval presence in the south. Admiral Arenthorn was the youngest officer present; he had risen quickly through the ranks after several ships were lost in the Northern Archipelago and the prince had ordered a summary execution of the entire naval executive staff. The Malakasian fleet had been pursuing two pirate vessels through the Ravenian Sea when they ran aground on the rocks that dotted the ocean between Malakasia and Gorsk.

Arenthorn drank deeply from a goblet of Falkan wine and quickly refilled the chalice. His under-tunic was soaked through; he feared he would soon discolour his uniform with unsightly sweat stains. A few of his colleagues looked askance at him as they picked at trays of tidbits prepared by Malagon's team of chefs, but Arenthorn didn't care. He gulped the wine, refilled the goblet a third time and moved towards the open window, hoping to find a measure of calm in tobacco.

Back in the shadowy halls of the royal residence, a garrison lieutenant barked an order and his entire platoon snapped to attention. Without fanfare or even a telltale creak from the ancient oaken doors Prince Malagon of Malakasia, almost invisible among the folds of a heavy wool cloak, drifted silently from his residence and on towards the palace audience chamber. None of the soldiers dared to look at their prince, but many noted the absence of sound as he passed by. It was as though his feet never touched the floor: he simply floated, more spirit than man, as his cloak billowed around him in the windless inner passageway. It was almost impossible in the half-light to discern where Prince Malagon's robes ended and the ambient darkness began.

Loyal and obedient to a fault, not one of his personal guard would have dreamed of reaching out to test the edges of the infinite blackness that surrounded the prince. All understood their death would be swift and without warning if they so much as twitched. They escorted the prince to his audience chamber, where the door swung open before them, seemingly of its own volition. The guards glanced uneasily at one another as the chamber resealed itself once the shadowy apparition had moved inside. Surrounded by his most trusted advisors, there was no need for the palace garrison to accompany Malagon any further this evening. There were already four guards posted in the chamber.

Hearing the chamber door open, Admiral Arenthorn took a long last draw on his pipe and emptied its bowl into a discarded wine goblet on the windowsill. As Prince Malagon entered the room without a sound, every man dropped immediately to one knee, heads bowed low and eyes on the floor. The prince gazed across the bowed heads of his most deferential and loyal servants for a moment before gliding to the head of a large rectangular table in the centre of the room.

'Join me,' he said quietly, his grim voice echoed in their heads, breaking the strained silence.

Arenthorn looked about the room as the others rose slowly and moved to take their places at the council table. His seat was on the opposite side, near the wall. He crossed behind Malagon to take his place among his colleagues, but as he drew level with the prince, Admiral Arenthorn, his stomach turning and his heart pounding a nearly audible rhythm in his chest, drew his sabre from a jewelled scabbard and struck with all his might at the back of the prince's robes.

Cries of, 'Arenthorn, no!' and 'My prince!' rang out across the room, but it was too late. Arenthorn was grinning at the thought of killing the demon lord who had been oppressing and torturing the people of Eldarn for a generation, and he brought the blade down with all his strength.

The sabre flashed in the torch and candlelight and passed through Malagon's form to embed itself deep in the heavy wood of the council table.

Arenthorn's face blanched and he choked back a cry of alarm as he struggled to free the blade for a second blow. Two palace guards, their own broadswords drawn, were moving towards him, and the nearest general, an elderly man from Pellia, had pushed his way between Arenthorn and the prince.

The young admiral pulled hard on the sabre, determined to try once more before he felt the heavy tearing pain of a broadsword ripping through his body. The blade suddenly came loose from the table and he nearly fell backwards with its unexpected release. He lifted the weapon to strike, but as he did so, he felt something strange. He looked quickly at the grip to ensure it had not come apart, shattered, or bent with the initial blow, but it was no longer a cunning basketweave of gold and iron studded with precious stones; it was a snake, a marsh adder, nearly as long as a tall man, the diamond pattern along its back as bright as the gold and rubies of his sword.

He had little time to admire the deadly beauty of the serpent, for it had already coiled back over its own body and lunged, biting him hard on the wrist, then striking at his face, sinking its venomous fangs into the flesh beneath his right eye.

Arenthorn screamed in terror and collapsed, writhing, to the floor. The snake fell nearby and clattered several times: a metallic clang, a sabre once again. Through blood and tears, Arenthorn saw one of Malagon's guards standing over him, broadsword raised. Then above the cacophony of shouts and curses he heard Malagon's voice boom, as much inside his head as without, 'Stop!'

The soldier held fast, his sword hovering above the would-be assassin cowering on the stone floor. A bloody hand held over his injured eye, Arenthorn wept like a lost child.

Except for the admiral's pitiful cries there was silence. Malagon spoke again. 'Sheath your weapon, soldier.'

The guard immediately complied, but remained standing over Arenthorn.

'Admiral,' Malagon said. Arenthorn was certain he could hear the prince within his own mind; a deep, resonant voice echoed like a god trapped inside a hollow mountain.

'You dared to strike me down.' The prince's cloak was an inky void. 'I commend your bravery and conviction, but you have failed. Now, rise.'

Arenthorn struggled to his feet. His face and wrist were bleeding from the deep puncture wounds. He dropped his arms to his side, knowing death was certain. He choked back a sob and tried to gain control of himself: after all, he had never expected to leave the audience chamber alive. He thought of his father and prepared to die with dignity.

'You are a demon,' he accused as calmly as he could. 'All Eldarn suffers because of you.'

The hollow voice answered, 'Yes, Eldarn suffers, but only because I take pleasure bringing suffering to Eldarn.' He motioned to a guard. 'My coach, now.' The man hustled away and the still-invisible monarch turned his attention back to Arenthorn.

'You come from Port Denis, I believe. We will travel there together, tonight.'

Arenthorn had no wish to discover what the evil lord had in mind for the people of Port Denis; he threw himself at the prince, hoping to be struck dead at that moment, but Malagon waved one hand, almost negligently, and Arenthorn collapsed as a burning sensation flared up inside his mind, pain so strong, so unbearable, he screamed and curled into a foetal position.

'You will will live through the night, Admiral,' Malagon commanded as Arenthorn fell away into a dark and tortuous nightmare. live through the night, Admiral,' Malagon commanded as Arenthorn fell away into a dark and tortuous nightmare.

The village of Port Denis was many days' ride from Welstar Palace, but the caravan of coaches and riders made the trip in less than an aven. The officers felt the world around them blur into a continuous fabric of darkness; only the ground before their mounts or beneath their coaches was visible in the light of Eldarn's twin moons.

Soon the scent of low tide and the feel of the heavy salt air permeated the night. Malagon's coach slowed to a stop on a bluff above an inlet. Port Denis was built on either side of a narrow stream that ran northwest into the sea, its simple homes and buildings built into the sides of the hill. The members of the prince's military council secretly shuddered. The village below was about to feel the full force of their prince's anger; it might one day be their own homes.

Arenthorn was dragged from the coach and dropped to the ground at the dark prince's feet. Waving one hand over the admiral, Malagon spoke softly, 'You will suffer no longer.' The puncture wounds in Arenthorn's face and wrist healed instantly. The burning pain caused by the snake's venom subsided and the reeling, turning confusion of the agonising nightmare spun slowly to a stop.

Arenthorn climbed to his feet. 'Don't do this, Malagon,' he told the nebulous form standing beside him. 'These people have done nothing except struggle to survive under your thumb.'

'I did not free you from your pain to listen to you giving me orders,' the dark prince said coldly. 'I freed you from your pain so nothing would distract you from witnessing my power.' Malagon pointed towards the village. 'Your wife, children and father live here, do they not?'

'No,' Arenthorn lied. 'I moved them away several Twinmoonsago.'

'Liar!' Malagon screamed. Though Arenthorn covered his ears, nothing could alleviate the force of the evil prince's powerful voice bellowing inside his head. 'They live here still. They probably sit together this very evening, wondering where you are. Would you like to go down and see them one last time, Arenthorn?'

At last the young admiral's facade cracked and he dropped to one knee. He begged forgiveness, and pleaded for the lives of his family. He tried in vain to grab hold of Prince Malagon's robes, but in the darkness their folds escaped his grasp. 'My lord, please,' he pleaded, 'kill me, kill me ten thousand times, but spare the village.'

'I have no intention of killing you, Admiral. You will live for many Twinmoons, enjoying the memories of what happened here tonight: what you you did tonight. did tonight.

'Your wife will live as well. She will join us at Welstar Palace. Every morning you will report to my chambers, retrieve her and spend the day nursing her back to health. You will gaze into her vacuous eyes, knowing you murdered her children and killed her spirit. Every day she will beg you to take her life, but you won't. Instead, you will love and care for her, pleading for her forgiveness as you now plead for mine. And every night, I will send a servant to collect her once again. Who knows? Perhaps after a few Twinmoons, I will tire of torturing you and you will be permitted to die.'

Turning to the others, he added, 'This is a lesson to each of you. Never cross me.'

Malagon swept one hand towards the shallow sloping hills flanking the seaside village. Against the already dark night, the landscape seemed to darken even further, as if a blanket had been draped over the hamlet, smothering all light, all hope. The wall of inky nothingness crept slowly along the stream, across the village to the wharf below. Fire and torchlight, a constellation of flickering orange and yellow, died out, leaving the expanse that had been the village of Port Denis as black as pitch. Nothing moved and no one spoke. There were no cries for help and no shrieks for mercy. No survivors fled into the sea.

Then, quietly at first, a lone voice carried through the annihilated village and up the sides of the bluff to where Malagon and his military council stood. A tortured scream, like one damned for ever to hell, carried on the night air.

'Ah,' Malagon said, amused, 'that will be your wife, Admiral.' Motioning to two generals nearby, he added, 'Run and fetch her, will you?'

Admiral Kuvar Arenthorn of Port Denis knelt in the dirt above his village screaming into the night. He began with a plea for forgiveness to the souls of his children, then to the hapless innocents of Port Denis, murdered because of his own stupidity. His screams matched the tortured wailing of his wife, Port Denis's lone survivor.

Marshalling his wits for a moment, he sprang from the bluffs into the darkness, hoping to plummet to death on the rocks below, but Malagon would not permit it. Reaching out, the dark prince caught Arenthorn in a vice-like spell and threw him back violently into the side of his carriage where the admiral finally lay still, whimpering beneath his breath.