'Do you see any hickory trees in this ravine?' Mark gestured towards the hillside. It was true. There were no hardwoods in sight save the twisted scrub oaks growing beneath the evergreens. 'The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced it was no accident you picked up this piece of wood.'

By midday, Steven had finished most of a wineskin by himself. He was drunk, not falling-from-the-saddle-drunk, but numbingly, pleasantly drunk. It was a skill he had learned after graduating from college: how to drink just enough to maintain a happy and painless stupor. College had taught him nothing about alcohol except that drinking as much as he could stand inevitably resulted in poor sexual performance, sickening bed spins and powerful all-day hangovers. It took years to learn to slow or stop drinking when he achieved the perfect inebriated state, somewhere between sober and falling down.

His thoughts began to drift back to Colorado, and the many trails, each turn and switchback memorised, that crisscrossed foothills similar to these. Loosely gripping the reins, he imagined himself wandering through Three Sisters Park or along the Mt Evans trail above Evergreen. He could feel glacier snow beneath his boots and smell clouds of pine pollen as spring breezes cascaded along the Front Range. He saw himself break through the tree line above Leadville as he approached Mt Elbert's peak, and remembered the lush ferns growing near a stream that flowed past the Decatur Peak trailhead.

Decatur Peak. He and Mark had planned to climb it one last time before winter set in. Hannah had wanted to come with them.

He thought of Hannah Sorenson, and the lilac aroma that lingered in the space between her neck and hair. It was like an alcove, a tiny cave where he could hide away, inhale her essence, and close his mind to the frightening and terrible things he had seen and done since his arrival in Eldarn.

He wondered where she was, and if she was worried about him. He imagined her brow furrowed as she leaned patiently on the staff sergeant's desk at the Idaho Springs police station. Would the officer find that wrinkled brow endearing, or would he simply push a sheaf of papers across the desk at her? 'Fill these out, ma'am,' he would say, unconcerned that she might be losing hope, or worse, losing interest. Steven worked to keep his thoughts focused, frightened of the pain that lay just beyond the edge of his consciousness. If he allowed his mind to run its course, he would convince himself that Hannah had become distracted by more important things in her life. She would forget him and move on. Did she not know how he cared for her? If their roles were reversed, he would never stop looking for her.

Then it was too late. He crossed the line and his musings were out of control. He was a murderer, lost and alone in this curious world of terror and hatred, and he had just convinced himself that his girlfriend was already forgetting him. Reaching for the wineskin again, he decided a comfortable, relaxed stupor was not enough to get him through the afternoon. He needed the whole package, the falling-down, blubbering, sobbing, blacking-out inebriation he remembered from his youth. If Sallax and Versen were disappointed in him and his weakness, so be it. They could tie him to the saddle if they were so damned set on getting to Welstar Palace.

'Good night,' he called aloud to anyone listening, and was about to take a long swallow from the wineskin when Gilmour interrupted his tailspin.

'They weren't human, you know.' The old man took the wineskin from him and swallowed a mouthful.

'What's that?'

'The Seron aren't really human.' Gilmour re-corked the wineskin. 'You didn't kill human beings last night, Steven. It was more akin to killing a pack of wild dogs that attacked you in the forest.'

'No it wasn't, Gilmour. It was exactly like killing people, because at the time I killed them, I believed they were people.'

'You make a good point. However, if it's any comfort, those Seron were denied the opportunity to enjoy a full human life many Twinmoons ago. Look at it as bringing peace to unthinkably tortured creatures.' He gave Steven a compassionate look before adding, 'We may face much worse before we reach Welstar Palace.'

'And even worse when we arrive there?'

'Yes.'

'I'm not sure I can do it, Gilmour.' Steven tightened his grip on the hickory staff.

'You rose to the occasion last night.'

'I was in a blind rage last night. I didn't know what I was doing.'

Smiling his boyish grin, Gilmour reach over and gripped Steven's shoulder in a show of empathy. 'Yes, you did. It's just that you never realised what it feels like. All rage is blind rage, Steven. Learning to tap it to save yourself or your friends will see you through this ordeal.'

'I don't want to learn to tap it; it's not a tap I can turn on and off.' He searched for the right words. 'I'm afraid that if I master that skill, I will lose myself. I will never again be Steven Taylor, the person I was before I unfolded that bloody tapestry, or before I picked up this miserable stick.'

'I can tell you already, my friend, losing Steven Taylor, the bank employee from Colorado, was done the moment you withdrew Lessek's Key from the safe.'

'I'm not ready to accept that, Gilmour,' Steven said, even now knowing, deep inside, that the old magician was right.

'You need to get ready. I can't guess what Lessek will tell you, but I do know we must try to summon him tomorrow night.'

A narrow canyon, invisible from a distance, cut a snakelike path through the precipitous slopes of the Blackstone Mountain range. Brynne squinted against the dwindling sunlight, trying to pick out the pathway Gilmour assured her was there, but she couldn't see it against the shadowy grey of the cold granite wall before them. Her back was sore from days of hard riding, and she longed to make camp for the night, eat a hot meal, and pass out in her bedroll. The brief but unexpected skirmish with Malagon's Seron warriors had left her shaken, but she worked to divert her attention to more productive thoughts. Their journey was important to the people of Eldarn, and she knew much more would be expected from her in the coming Twinmoons.

Reflecting on the battle, Brynne found it curious that she had feared more for Mark Jenkins than herself; she'd been deeply relieved when he emerged from the struggle unscathed. Her anxiety grew as she imagined the coming conflict, especially now that she knew she would put herself in harm's way to protect the charismatic stranger. It was an awkward time to discover she had feelings for him and ironic that her most ardent feelings rarely emerged at a convenient time.

The day passed quietly. Steven Taylor was drunk but rode well enough to keep up with the rest of the group. An air of nervous tension lay over the sober members of the party, and though no one mentioned it, they were all contemplating Gilmour's disclosure that they had been tracked from Estrad by an unseen enemy. Anticipating another attack at any moment, Garec kept an arrow nocked on the longbow across his lap. Versen held a short battle-axe in one hand, and even Mark had his sword loose in its scabbard.

Despite their exhaustion, Sallax pushed them ever forward, encouraging Versen to find a navigable trail over the last wooded foothill that lay between them and Seer's Peak. When they finally reached the mountain's base, just before twilight, Brynne nearly fell from the saddle. Mark had to reach up to help her dismount. He was shattered and there was no affection in his touch; rather, it was a courtesy offered from one spent traveller to another. Steven half-climbed and half-rolled from the saddle, clumsily untied his bedroll and collapsed. Within moments, he was asleep.

Mark felt badly for Steven, but didn't envy his friend the hangover he would have in the morning. Taking in their surroundings, he noticed the valley they were in was lush with shrubs, ferns, evergreens and the ubiquitous scrub oak. Gilmour told them they would camp here for two nights while he, Garec and Steven climbed Seer's Peak and attempted to summon Lessek's spirit. Breathing deeply, Mark smelled the cool mountain air and wished he were in a valley along a stream near home. He found a comfortable place in which to unroll his blankets and was about let sleep take him for the night when Sallax approached across the clearing.

'You're first watch tonight,' the indefatigable Ronan partisan said sharply. Brynne tried to pretend she wasn't eavesdropping on the exchange.

'You trust me, Sallax?'

'I saw you fight that Seron. You were trying to protect Brynne.'

'Of course. I would have fought to protect any of us-' He stood and looked Sallax in the eye. 'Even you.'

Surprising Mark, Sallax laughed out loud, a sound like a muffled gunshot. 'Yes, perhaps even me. Let's hope we never have to find out.' Reaching into his belt, he withdrew a deadly-looking axe and handed it to Mark. 'Here, use this. That rapier doesn't suit you.'

Accepting the menacing little weapon, Mark thanked Sallax before asking, 'Why is this better for me?'

'The rapier takes many Twinmoons to master, and even then it leaves too many holes in one's defence.' Using his hand as a makeshift axe, he demonstrated. 'The battle-axe is much easier to wield. Just remember to make snap blows with your wrists and forearms, retracting as quickly as you strike. Don't try to hack off limbs. It will slow you down and leave your upper body open to counterattacks.'

'Very good,' said Mark, swallowing hard, 'I won't try to hack off any limbs.'

'Excellent!' Sallax hugged Mark in an uncharacteristic show of camaraderie and commanded, 'Wake Garec in an aven.'

Dawn found Gilmour awake and already brewing a large pot of tecan. He knew Steven and Mark missed their daily coffee; this was the best compromise he could come up with. Though he had racked his brain, he could not recall coffee's flavour. He had finished his last cup on Little Round Top above Gettysburg, Pennsylvania just before Confederate artillery began shelling those heights from far below. The Larion Senator promised himself that if they succeeded in ending Nerak's reign of terror, he would return to Pennsylvania and perhaps brew another pot there in the trees above Devil's Den. That was for the future. Today, he would climb Seer's Peak and, hopefully, contact Lessek. While his friends slept around him, he questioned whether his determination and magic were enough to defeat Nerak. He lacked confidence, and although he would never do so in front of the others, he wondered seriously whether they could really win against evil itself. Could it work? He knew of no force in the universe strong enough to defeat evil. The best they could hope for was to equalise it, to evenly match it with powerful magic, not to destroy it. He believed there was as much good in the universe as evil, and far more good in Eldarn than the evil Nerak represented. But Nerak was evil itself, an intact minion of evil's essence held together by a supreme mandate from beyond the plane of the universe, the Fold.

If this were to be done, he would need Lessek's help. Gilmour yearned for the founder of the Larion Senate to offer encouragement and to give him a strategy to save Eldarn. 'And ourselves,' he added quietly in a hopeful whisper, 'to save ourselves as well.'

He needed to be more careful. He had put himself in harm's way so frequently in the Twinmoons since the fall of the Larion Senate he never considered the potential consequences. With him dead, Nerak would come down on Mark and Steven like a firestorm. It would take only a moment, and the location of Lessek's Key would no longer be a secret. Gilmour represented their only protection. He would use his own magic to safeguard Steven and Mark from the dark prince's possession. He had had to stay alive. to stay alive.

'Nerak believes we have the key with us,' the old sorcerer mused aloud. 'That's why he's trying so diligently to kill us.' He warmed his hands over the fire and stirred the tecan. 'As long as he thinks we have the key and as long as I'm alive, we'll have an advantage.'

Branag Otharo perched the tankard of beer precariously on his upturned wrist, placed a small loaf of bread atop a mountain of steaming venison stew in a wooden bowl and freed one hand to tug down on the leather strap threaded through the door to his saddlery emporium. He felt the latch inside come free, retrieved the mug and nudged the door open with his toe. The day had been warm, but with sunset, a cool wind had moved in with the rising tide.

Branag paused in the doorway and searched the street. 'Dog!' he shouted, then peered along the road in the opposite direction. 'Dog! Come on now!' The big wolfhound had been at his side all day, even as he walked to the tavern to pick up his dinner. 'Dog!' Branag cried again and waited several moments before adding, 'All right then, but you'll be out all night.' He paused, hoping to detect the familiar sound of the great hound's loping run along the muddy thoroughfare. Hearing nothing but the distant jangle of a ship's bell, Branag entered the shop and allowed the door to close behind him.

BOOK III.

The Blackstone Mountains

SEER'S PEAK

Seer's Peak, flanked by towering, jagged mountains, looked like an unfinished building in a city of skyscrapers. Short, nearly flat on top, the crest looked as if it had been hacked off, truncated by some vindictive god with a scythe. The initial slope was steep, but Gilmour's camouflaged trail, although precipitous and narrow, was easily navigable.

Steven, well used to mountain trekking, passed his sturdy length of hickory to Gilmour to use as a support.

'Thank you, my boy,' the old man said, leaning on the staff and breathing heavily. 'I expect this climb will be quite easy for someone with your experience.'

'I don't know, Gilmour,' Steven replied, perspiring. 'I'm already wishing I'd had less wine yesterday.'

Garec laughed before chiming in, 'Not to worry, Steven. It's happened to the best of us.'

Steven's head still felt as though it was about to crack open and spill out onto the ground, even though he had finished a full skin of water to help the pain subside.

The trio climbed in silence, accustoming themselves to the thinner air as they ascended. The game trail ran along the southern slope of the hillside and disappeared into the narrow canyon that separated Seer's Peak from the closest of the titanic neighbours. Once within the canyon, Steven could see their trail snaking back and forth along the western hillside in a series of switchbacks until it disappeared out of sight near the end of a razor-thin ridge running westwards along the mountain's crest.

Pausing momentarily, he voiced his thoughts aloud: 'I fear it's going to be a long day.'

'I hope we'll be there by midday,' Gilmour said. 'That ridge can be dangerous in the dark.' He wiped a hand across his brow. 'If the weather holds, we should have no trouble reaching the landing by evening.'

Garec turned from where he had been looking up the trail. 'The landing?'

'There's a flat expanse of rock almost directly above us now, where we'll camp tonight. I hope we'll be in communication with Lessek before dawn tomorrow.' Neither Steven nor Garec were looking forward to their first meeting with the founder of the Larion Senate; Gilmour, noticing their discomfort, changed the subject. 'Anyway, if I'm going to drag these old bones all the way up there, we had better keep moving.'

They climbed most of the morning, admiring the majestic peaks in the distance and chatting aimlessly to keep their minds off the coming evening. Garec was impressed with Steven's hiking boots: he had never seen anything like them before and was curious to try them out, especially after Steven showed him how tightening the laces gave more support going downhill.

As they climbed higher, Steven noted several new species of hardwood growing along the slopes. In the crisp autumn morning, the hues of the changing foliage looked like an artist's palette against the stark grey and black of the rocky cliffs beyond.

Lunch bread, cheese and dried fruits was taken during a brief halt; Steven flinched when Gilmour drew a wineskin from his pack, helped himself to a hefty swig, then passed it to Garec. The bowman took a satisfying drink and motioned for Steven to join him.

Steven felt his stomach tighten. 'Sorry, I'm not quite ready. Perhaps in a month or two I'll join you again.'

The English word confused Garec. 'Month?' he asked, 'what's a month?'

Steven, who had been thinking about Eldarni time himself, replied, 'A measure of time, about a half Twinmoon, I suppose. We have twelve months in one year, the measure we use to chart the length of our lives.'

'So, how many year year are you?' Garec asked. are you?' Garec asked.

'I am twenty-eight years old now,' Steven replied, stressing the plural. 'I'll be twenty-nine years old next spring.'

Calculating furiously, Garec said, 'We have a Twinmoon about every sixty days. That means there would be six Twinmoons for every one of your years. That makes you about one hundred and seventy Twinmoons, close to my age.'

'Yes, but your days are only about five-sixths the length of our days. So, I would need to add another sixth of one hundred and seventy to find my true Eldarni age.' Steven basked in the mathematics and the joy of having a simple multi-step linear algebra problem to solve. 'So I must be just over one hundred and ninety-eight Twinmoons.'

'Excellent!' Garec almost shouted, 'we will plan a great two-hundred Twinmoon celebration for you. It is an important milestone for us.'

'That should just be about enough time,' Steven replied, grinning, 'I might be ready for alcohol again in a hundred and twenty days.'

Shortly after lunch, they reached the eastern edge of the narrow ridge that led up to the landing. Now there was only a gradual incline, but the footing on the ridge trail was precarious as it climbed over boulders and up sharp rock faces. There were dangerous drops on either side. They had not realised the north and south faces of Seer's Peak were nearly sheer when they had looked up from below; a wrong step or loose rock might mean a gruesome fall to the forest floor.

They had no rope and Steven cursed his shortsightedness every time Garec or Gilmour slipped, however slightly: he was an experienced climber and should have known better. Steven sympathised with Garec as he periodically peered over the edge in terror.

'We were always told to avoid looking down.' He tried to sound reassuring. 'But I find it helpful sometimes to take a good long look.'

'Helpful?' Garec looked doubtful. 'How could it possibly be helpful?'

'Well, it does keep you focused on the task at hand. I mean, there's nothing like fear as a motivator.'

'Then I have quite enough motivation, thanks.' Garec forced a tight-lipped smile. 'If it's all right with you, I'll work on staring straight ahead.'

Steven made his way to a large flat rock that jutted out over the precipice where he lay flat on his stomach and peered over the edge, following the path of the river to their previous night's campsite. Versen, Sallax, Brynne and Mark looked like ants from here as they hauled water and firewood. Steven rested for a moment while watching them, feeling sunlight on his back and the familiar texture of rock against his face and hands.

We might not make it. The haunting mantra started once again, but he quickly forced the memory from his thoughts. Another bout with despair would do him no good up here. To distract himself, he thought of how much Mark and Hannah would love navigating this ridge: the challenges, the danger, the stunning vistas; this climb was almost a microcosm of his experiences in Eldarn. Down there, he was the weakest, the least capable, unable to find sources of strength, determination and support. Why could Mark so easily make the transition? He appeared to be completely at ease, acting as though he had grown up in Rona. He had even begun a relationship with a Ronan woman. The haunting mantra started once again, but he quickly forced the memory from his thoughts. Another bout with despair would do him no good up here. To distract himself, he thought of how much Mark and Hannah would love navigating this ridge: the challenges, the danger, the stunning vistas; this climb was almost a microcosm of his experiences in Eldarn. Down there, he was the weakest, the least capable, unable to find sources of strength, determination and support. Why could Mark so easily make the transition? He appeared to be completely at ease, acting as though he had grown up in Rona. He had even begun a relationship with a Ronan woman.

Steven lay there in the afternoon sun, pondering his shortcomings, until Garec and Gilmour caught up with him.

The Larion Senator interrupted his thoughts. 'You look quite at ease up here, Steven.'

'I am.' Steven jumped nimbly to his feet. 'I've lived most of my life in a mountain range similar to this. It's the closest I've felt to home since we arrived in Eldarn.'

'I am glad you're enjoying the day,' Gilmour said. 'I hope tonight we'll discover it was not a wasted effort.'

Once Steven had toured an aircraft carrier. He remembered the feeling of awe at the size of the thing, particularly the breadth of the main deck. The flat expanse of rock that marked the western end of the Seer's Peak crest reminded him of that gargantuan vessel. The landing was a geological anomaly. The stone was nearly flat for hundreds of paces and it looked flawless no cracks, mineral intrusions or crevasses. Steven picked up a small stone and threw it as far as he could and it bounced to a stop less than a quarter of the way across the open area. A skilled pilot could land a plane here with room to spare.

Equally amazed, Garec asked, 'How can this be? The mountain couldn't have formed this way naturally.'

Having reached their destination, Gilmour was already smoking his pipe. The chill afternoon breeze carried his residual smoke eastwards along the ridge trail. Clenching the pipe firmly between his teeth, he answered, 'It seems impossible this is a natural formation, I agree. However, if this area were the result of some mystical force, it occurred long before I was born and long before the Larion Senate began practising magic.'

'Where or how will Lessek find us?' Steven wasn't sure which question was more appropriate.

'We can camp anywhere you like, Steven,' Gilmour responded, 'but I suggest we stay close to this end because it will be cold tonight and the closest firewood is back down the ridge a few hundred paces.'

'Good point,' Garec agreed. 'You two get dinner started. I'll go back and get some now.' He dropped his pack and headed towards the trailhead.

Steven followed. 'I'll come too we'll need as much as we can carry.'

When darkness fell, Steven felt as though they had built a campfire in the middle of the world's most expansive desert. Wind swept across the top of Seer's Peak, carrying much of the fire's heat with it, but Steven was too nervous to be cold; he was dreading the coming conversation with Lessek. He huddled deeper in his blankets, hoping, like a child, they might protect him from evil. He could see nothing except black stone and blacker sky.

Soon emotional and physical exhaustion caught up with him and Steven Taylor fell into a deep sleep.

He dreamed of the bank in Idaho Springs and the playful banter he'd exchanged with Myrna Kessler as she tried to solve his weekly mathematics problems. He had caught her trying to deduce the Egyptians' formula for the area of a circle, just before he had visited Meyers Antiques for the first time. He had walked to the lobby and asked Myrna if she would process some loan papers so he could get to Denver before the store closed. Peeking over her shoulder, he saw her sheet of paper was filled with squares and circles and notes about circumference and diameter. She had been tracing the base of her coffee cup when he emerged and surprised her.

Embarrassed, she had quickly put her notes aside and said something charming about not being his secretary. What else had she said that day? Her image moved in and out of focus, reminding him he was dreaming. She had teased him about having a geek's hobby. Howard had agreed. Steven had warned her not to drink too much that night, then left for his drive into the city.

As winds buffeted Seer's Peak, Steven Taylor, sleeping soundly, pulled his blankets close and rolled over towards the fire.

Garec tossed the last pieces of firewood onto the smouldering coals before curling up inside his blankets. He wanted to stay awake until Lessek arrived, if only so he did not awaken to find the spirit hovering over him. He was quite sure he would expire from shock if that happened.

Seated across from him, Gilmour smoked contemplatively, saying nothing as he stared into the flames.

Garec thought about his family and the farm. He prayed that the Malakasians had not connected his partisan activities with them.