Mark taught them how to cross a glacier, and how to remain vigilant for crevasses and areas of thin ice unsupported from below. Their progress had been slow but steady: in eight days they had navigated three high-altitude passes and two long valleys.

Reaching the highest point of their fourth mountain pass, Steven peered south. He felt encouraged by the distance they had covered, until he looked ahead. Even making adjustments to their map he was beginning to feel certain the Blackstone range would stretch ahead for ever.

'Eight days to get this far,' he muttered as he closed his coat against the wind. 'We have at least another twenty and that's just what I can see from up here.'

'We need a string of days in which we don't climb,' Mark agreed. 'We're pushing the limits of what we can handle already and it's getting colder all the time.'

Steven pointed northeast towards an open tract of still-green valley. It looked as though the gods who assembled the Blackstones had forgotten a thin patch, or maybe they wanted a flat stretch for a foothold among the jagged peaks. 'Look there, beyond those meadows. If we clear that pass tomorrow, we might be able to drop behind that range and run northwest along the valley for seven or eight days. It might be a hundred miles through there.'

'That's true,' Mark said. 'I'm sure there'll be some exposed areas along that valley floor, but at least we won't be at altitude, or risking getting stuck out here overnight.'

'And in a valley that long, we're certain to find water.'

'All right.' He turned to the others. 'My friends, it appears we can get away without climbing for a few days.'

'Thank all the gods of the Northern Forest,' Garec said, tightening the bandage supporting his swollen knee.

'But we do have to cross this next valley tomorrow and clear that pass the following day,' Steven said as he pointed towards the range of cruel peaks awaiting them in the distance. 'With that done, the going should get easier.'

They reached the tree line by early evening, and Gilmour suggested they continue moving down into the hollow vale before the snow accumulated. 'We'll have better footing now,' he explained. 'We should push on until it is too dark to see.'

'Let's keep moving then,' Steven encouraged.

'Wait here a few moments,' Garec said, 'then follow me down. I'll see if I can find us some dinner.' He slid the rosewood longbow from his shoulder, drew an arrow and sidled quietly into the trees.

An aven later, Garec stoked the fire and rotated a large chunk of meat one-half turn above the flames. He had killed a large boar with one shot through the neck; he could have felled another, but didn't believe he and his friends would be able to carry so much meat over the pass. They were having problems enough with what possessions they had. And if tonight were any indication, he expected to find rich hunting grounds and ample game in the valley just beyond the next ridge.

As the snow continued to fall the travellers found shelter in a grove of evergreen trees. The aroma of pine and cooking meat mixed in the fresh mountain air, nearly making Steven swoon. The idyllic setting made him grin despite his exhaustion.

'Garec, that smells so good, I might need to you to go out and kill another just for me,' he said as he inhaled deeply, savouring the scents.

'I'm sorry we're out of wine,' Garec answered, adding redundantly, 'It would taste much better with a skin or two.'

While Garec cooked, the others made camp. Sallax hung their cloaks and blankets near the fire, hoping to dry as much as possible. Keeping dry was as important as eating well; Sallax was determined to make it through the remaining mountain pass in as much comfort as possible. He motioned for Garec to unwrap his damaged knee and hung the makeshift bandage near the flames. He was worried about his friend and vowed that he would carry Garec over the next rise if necessary.

Sallax turned to listen as Gilmour and Mark pored over the map sketched inside Garec's saddlebag. Their breath clouded, then dissipated in the frigid air; Sallax imagined two ancient dragons facing one another, their nostrils a smoky warning of incipient firestorm. Then Gilmour exhaled and the cloud hung in the air, a diaphanous mist floating between the two men. Strangely, it did not fade, or disappear on the breeze. When Mark's breath joined it, the cloud began to take shape: buttons first, then a shirt, a leather belt. Startled, Sallax drew his rapier and shouted, 'Rutting lords, it's the wraith!'

Mark stood, looking about anxiously, and demanded, 'Where is it?'

'Right there, right in front of you.' Sallax approached, holding his rapier like a lecturer's pointer.

Seeing the misty apparition take shape before him, Mark fell backwards into the snow. Gilmour stood slowly and, inches from the mysterious intruder, reached out one hand and felt his fingers pass through the old banker's gossamer torso. 'Sallax, stay there,' he ordered, firm but calm. 'It's all right. He's not here to harm us.'

Steven rose to join the others. 'Can you feel it, Gilmour?'

The old sorcerer waved his hand back and forth through the wraith, but if his violation irked the ghostly visitor, it showed no sign. 'It's cold,' he told them. 'Much colder than the air.'

'What does it want?' Brynne asked. She put down the bundle of firewood she had been collecting and edged closer to Mark.

'It's taking news of our position back to Malagon,' Sallax answered. 'You said we were being followed. This thing has been in contact with Malagon since we left Estrad. That's why Lessek warned Garec about them. That's why Malagon has been able to send the almor, the Seron and the grettans out for us. Steven Taylor, use that staff, kill it like you killed the almor.'

Steven looked at Gilmour, but before the old man could respond, the wraith lifted one translucent arm and pointed at Sallax.

'What?' the angry Ronan asked defiantly. 'What is it? I'm right, aren't I? You're here spying on us, you horsecock.'

They stood, almost frozen, waiting to see how the wraith would respond to Sallax's anger. Gilmour realised his hand was still extended inside the spirit visitor and quickly retracted it. Around them the forest was deathly quiet, save for the falling snow and the crackling fire. Slowly, the former bank teller lowered its arm and floated across the camp to face Steven. Its features came slowly into focus and Steven clearly recognised the man from the lobby display case. As before, the wraith tried to communicate, moving its lips exaggeratedly, but before it could complete its first words, Sallax was moving.

He grabbed the hickory staff and raised it to strike at the ghostly visitor. 'I'll do it myself.'

'No!' Gilmour shouted, reaching for the weapon, but before Sallax could swing, the wraith disappeared, moving with fluid ease inside Steven's body. A look of rueful consternation passed across Steven's face. Then his head lolled forward to rest limply on his chest.

Stunned, Sallax froze. Gilmour hastened to Steven's side and, gripping him by the shoulders, spoke several words in an unknown language. Whatever Gilmour had said, it worked. Mark breathed a sigh of relief as the wraith oozed out of Steven and hovered in the air again. Steven himself sat down hard in the snow and rubbed his temples for a moment before telling Gilmour, 'It's all right. He's here to help.'

Sallax, still unconvinced, moved back into position, but before he could lash out, the apparition moved with mercurial speed, this time entering the big Ronan. Sallax's eyes rolled back in his head and he choked off a cry. It was gone; as quickly as it had entered it was gliding from Sallax's body and turning back to Steven. In a final show of good faith, it appeared to smile, then it faded into the forest, invisible against the slate-grey sky between the pines.

'Sallax!' Brynne screamed as she dashed over to her brother. Kneeling in the snow, she cradled his head in her lap and waited frantically for his breath to cloud the air. Mark climbed to his feet and hurried to assist Brynne. When Sallax finally exhaled, his sister nearly burst into tears. 'Mark, Garec,' she begged, 'help me move him near the fire.'

They wrapped him in several blankets. Then, after opening his eyes once, looking up through the intertwining pine branches at the falling snow, Sallax drifted off to sleep. Gilmour touched him gently on the forehead, stared down at the back of his hand as if a diagnosis lay hidden among its wrinkles, and smiled reassuringly at the rest of his companions. 'He's sleeping now. We should let him rest.' He reached out and turned Garec's roast a half-revolution above the fire.

Brynne looked to Steven. 'What did it do to you?'

'Nothing.' Steven searched for an accurate description. 'It felt as though a cold breeze blew through my clothes and pressed against my skin, but then, rather than simply chilling the surface, it pushed on and blew right through me.'

Garec tucked the ends of his blanket beneath Sallax's heels before asking, 'What did you mean when you said it was here to help?'

'He spoke to me. He said his name was Gabriel O'Reilly and that Nerak knew where we were. He tried to tell me more, but something Gilmour said forced him out. He was only able to tell me he wanted to help.'

'Why did he harm Sallax?' Garec asked. 'Especially if he wants to help us.'

'I'm not sure. Perhaps he felt threatened by the staff. Maybe it can destroy him; it certainly made short work of the almor.' Steven looked to Gilmour. 'What do you think?'

'I think if Nerak knows where we are it is because we have been followed. I have not used enough magic for him to trace me.' The old man made an awkward motion that Steven found unsettling. 'If he already knows where we are tonight, we might as well enjoy a few creature comforts. There is no more use trying to hide.' Gilmour waved one hand over the small campfire and the flames leaped to twice their height. Heat from the blaze warmed their campsite and Steven removed the hunk of boar from its wooden spit.

'Garec,' Gilmour directed, kneeling beside the blaze, 'come and sit here near the fire.'

As the bowman complied, Gilmour rubbed his palms together contemplatively until they glowed the same red hue they had the night he restored Steven's splintered wooden staff. 'Bend your knee,' the Larion Senator commanded, and again Garec did as he had been told. As the old man rubbed his hands gently on both sides of the injured leg, Garec could feel a warmth course through his torn cartilage and strained ligaments. The therapeutic spell lasted only a few moments, but the young Ronan was certain, even before he stood to test the leg's strength, that Gilmour had healed him completely. In fact, he felt better than he had in Twinmoons.

'Now for the snow,' the old man said to himself, rising from the ground. He closed his eyes, concentrated for a moment and gestured with both hands above his head, as if drawing the outline of an invisible dome. A brilliant light shone through the pine boughs, illuminating the forest around them and blinding everyone momentarily.

Steven rubbed the flash from his eyes in time to see Gilmour pull a piece of meat from the roast. 'There,' the old magician said, chewing thoughtfully. 'Now there's no doubt that Nerak knows where we are.'

Steven could feel the intense heat of their now-roaring fire warm the forest around him. He gazed through the trees and saw snow continuing to drape the pine grove in soft winter white, but no more snow fell in the area immediately surrounding their campsite, as if some kind of mystical canopy sheltered them from the storm. Impressed, he moved near the fire and asked, 'How would the ghost or whatever it was of a dead bank teller in Idaho Springs get here to Eldarn if the far portal on our side was locked away in a safe deposit box?'

'Nerak must have brought him back through,' Mark said. He gestured to Gilmour. 'You said he can cross over with only one portal open. Can he make the trip while in possession of an unwilling soul?'

'Certainly. And although I believe he, like all of us, is subject to the desultory whim of the weaker portal-'

'That's the one that drops you anywhere, right?' Mark interrupted.

'Yes, exactly,' Gilmour continued, 'even though he would be transported almost anywhere in your world going through, coming back, he has the power to pinpoint the open portal at Welstar Palace.'

'Can you do that as well?' Steven asked hopefully.

'No,' Gilmour answered almost apologetically. 'My role with the Larion Senate was to oversee research and scholarship. I learned a few useful spells, but I never had access to the portals like Nerak or Pikan or their team.'

'But you've been researching for so long,' Garec suggested. 'Just like Nerak.'

'That's true, and I might surprise myself and detect the open portal, but I haven't made a trip across the Fold in half my lifetime. I wouldn't want to risk it on my first attempt.'

'So the ghost of Gabriel O'Reilly haunts the Blackstone Mountains,' Steven said. 'Why?'

'I think he escaped,' Garec suggested softly.

'What's that?'

'I think he escaped. I think he managed to get away from Nerak.' He drew his hunting knife and began slicing thick portions of meat. 'When I dreamed of Rona that night on Seer's Peak, I saw hundreds, perhaps thousands of those wraiths moving through the forbidden forest near Estrad. I thought they were the souls of people I've killed coming back to haunt me, but I've not killed nearly that many. Seeing Gabriel O'Reilly again, I think he might be an unwilling member of a terrifying army of spirits, each one the disembodied soul of another of Nerak's victims. I am not sure why Lessek showed them moving through southern Rona, but I don't like to think about those implications.'

'Holy Christ,' Mark whispered under his breath.

'So, what's he doing here?' Brynne asked.

'He's obviously trying to tell us something,' Garec answered. 'He must be aware of who he is, or who he was was, and he's defying Nerak by making a trip across Eldarn to warn us about another assassin, or some pending challenge.'

'Like facing an army of those things?' Mark asked.

'Perhaps,' Garec shivered, 'although I really hope not.'

Noting Sallax still asleep near the fire, Mark began to grow anxious. O'Reilly's ghost, a benevolent wraith with good intentions, had sidelined the company's toughest and most dedicated warrior in a matter of seconds. How could they fight an army of wraiths, especially an army bent on killing them? They would be overrun in a heartbeat. 'We can't fight them,' he said cautiously, hoping the others would agree.

'That's right,' Gilmour agreed. 'We could manage a few, but if Nerak controls the souls of every victim he's ever possessed, we would be defeated very quickly.'

'So what do do we do?' Brynne asked. 'What if Garec's vision comes to pass and we find ourselves facing thousands of those things?' we do?' Brynne asked. 'What if Garec's vision comes to pass and we find ourselves facing thousands of those things?'

Gilmour reached for a second helping of roast boar. 'We'll just have to move through them undetected.'

Mark looked down at the slab of cooked meat resting in the bottom of the wooden trencher he had been using since the company of travellers rode north from the orchard outside Estrad. Trench mouth. As a student he'd misheard the term and thought it was the result of eating from wooden bowls, trenchers that had begun to rot. Disgusting. Although he later found out the only thing close was some equally unpleasant disease of the mouth and throat, named for Vincent Price, Vincent van Gogh, Vincent-his-sister's-dry-cleaner- who knew? Vincent someone, anyway, but whoever it was, he'd never liked using porous crockery. Just to be on the safe side, he had fastidiously cleaned and dried his trencher after each meal. Now his determination to avoid bacteria seemed pretty trivial. Fight an army of ghosts? Move through them undetected? It made trench mouth sound little worse than a cold.

He and Steven had learned to trust Gilmour, but he wasn't convinced the old man could make them all invisible enough to get past a homicidal ghost army. Shaking his head, Mark turned to watch Steven. He looked very different these days: unwashed, sporting a short beard, and he ate heartily, wiping the grease from his mouth with handfuls of snow from the forest floor. The hickory staff lay across his lap and he seemed more confident than he had ever been. Mark could not remember when Steven had changed from the man terrified of the staff's power to the man who went nowhere without it.

For a moment Mark wished he had a mirror in which to check the progress of his own transformation. Eldarn was changing him as well; he could feel it. He knew he was losing weight, and that his face was drawn and tired. But what of the wraith hidden within his soul, whatever would be left if Nerak won? Steven said the ghost that haunted them along this trail was the same man whose picture hung in the bank lobby, a grainy black-and-white photograph that radiated seriousness and superiority as only a nineteenth-century professional man could. The wraith version of Gabriel O'Reilly's soul still looked like the man in the photograph. Mark wondered whether his own spirit would look like an unshaven, emaciated black man lost in a foreign world. Ignoring any bacteria festering in his trencher, he picked up the roughly hewn chunk of meat and began to eat.

Garec woke Steven, shaking him gently and murmuring, 'It's your watch. There's some meat left on the stone near the fire if you're hungry.'

'Thanks, Garec.' Steven stood, stretched and faced the blaze. It roared on, although no one had added wood to it since before dinner; Brynne's abandoned pile was unneeded. Steven, pleasantly warm for the first time in days, loosened his tunic, hefted the hickory staff and took several long swallows of water from Brynne's wineskin. Around him he could hear the sounds of the forest and the steadily falling snow. He walked towards the periphery of their camp and saw the snow had piled up to nearly twelve inches he was standing in less than an inch, all that had fallen before Gilmour cast his protective spell.

'At least we'll be able to pack up with relative ease,' he said to himself. Steven was dreading the coming journey. The sun would most likely not appear all day and he and Mark would have a struggle to keep the group moving in the right direction.

From the top of a mountain pass it wasn't too hard to select a destination and estimate travel time through the next valley, but from the valley floor, they had been used to relying on the sun for guidance. It was easy to get turned around: a crooked trail through thick underbrush or around a dense grove of trees could often send even the most experienced travellers back over their own tracks. He and Mark would be forced to use the slope of the hillside, as well as their best guess, to ensure the company reached the opposite tree line by sundown.

Standing on essentially dry ground and looking out a few paces to where the snow was piling up in the forest, Steven marvelled at Gilmour's power. He wondered if the old man might be able to illuminate a path across the valley and up the opposite slope so that he and Mark might use landmarks below to chart their course towards the summit. They'd barely glanced at this valley before descending into the trees; for a moment Steven considered climbing back up to reconnoitre the final pass before the long green vale and the Falkan border.

Then something moved.

Outside camp, the snow was an ethereal white curtain that impeded Steven's view of the surroundings woods. Staring at the place where he thought he had seen something, Steven felt the staff warm slightly in his grasp, as if it sensed potential danger and was ready for a fight. He felt rather than heard footsteps, a distant vibration. Something approached from the tree line above, making its way down the hillside. He thought it was something large, perhaps a rider. As the minutes ticked by, he began to feel the presence all around him.

He wondered whether he should wake the others, but if he were imagining it he'd feel pretty stupid. Just as he'd made up his mind he was was imagining things, Steven caught sight of eyes, glowing eyes, like those of a deer reflecting car headlights. But save for the soft radiance from Gilmour's fire, there was no light for these eyes to reflect. Instead, they were shining amber, like a glint of sunshine on a muddy puddle. He adjusted his grip on the staff, bent his knees in readiness and moved to the edge of Gilmour's protection to await whatever creature possessed these eerily incandescent orbs. imagining things, Steven caught sight of eyes, glowing eyes, like those of a deer reflecting car headlights. But save for the soft radiance from Gilmour's fire, there was no light for these eyes to reflect. Instead, they were shining amber, like a glint of sunshine on a muddy puddle. He adjusted his grip on the staff, bent his knees in readiness and moved to the edge of Gilmour's protection to await whatever creature possessed these eerily incandescent orbs.

Slowly, as if disgorged by a retreating bank of fog, the intruder began to take shape in the firelight: dark as pitch, and broad across the shoulders. It came in on all fours, and Steven gasped when he realised he was facing an enormous grettan, much larger than those that had routed the Malakasian platoons at Riverend Palace. Curiously, the beast did not charge. Instead, it came forward to the edge of the camp and sat on its haunches in the deep snow, only five or six paces away. Steven studied the monster towering over him. His staff, now radiant, was at the ready. He could see enormous teeth spiking the creature's powerful jaws. Its front legs were thick with muscle and its paws were ringed with hooked claws. Saliva dripped from its maw and it ran a large pink tongue once over its mouth. Though the height of a Clydesdale, the grettan shared more physical features with a jungle cat than a horse. Steven thought his arms would just be able to span the beast's massive chest.

Unlike Versen's description of grettans encountered in the northern territories, this one was alone, not with a pack, nor did it have it the lifeless black eyes the Ronan had described in such detail.

The creature kept its glowing amber gaze fixed on Steven, then startled him by speaking. It made no audible sound, but Steven was able to hear it inside his mind, a carefully contained roar that echoed from the walls of his consciousness.

'Steven Taylor, it is my distinct pleasure to meet you.'

Behind him, Gilmour's eyes opened. The magician sat bolt upright. Nerak was here. He looked frantically throughout the camp, but he could not see Steven anywhere. 'Stop! Steven,' he shouted into the darkness as he climbed to his feet.

Steven, only a few paces from Gilmour, had no idea he had faded into the night, that he had been swallowed by the dark prince's spell. He had become a shadow, invisible to his compatriots. Nerak wanted a few moments alone with the surprisingly powerful foreigner.

'Prince Malagon. Or should I call you Nerak?' Steven thought he would collapse. He had never felt so frightened, nor so absolutely helpless. 'You've come for Lessek's Key.' Under the circumstances, it was perhaps the smartest thing he could say. Howard and Myrna's lives were all but lost if the evil minion had any notion the key was lying unprotected in Idaho Springs. It was certain now that Nerak was under the assumption Steven had the key in his possession, or the dark prince would not have bothered to come here searching for it.

'Lessek's Key will be mine in time,' the voice growled in his mind, and Steven felt his stomach drop. 'This evening, I come to share some interesting news with you just you.'

Despite the cold mountain air, Steven began to perspire; he prayed Nerak could not detect his insecurity. He did his best to compose himself, then responded, 'You have nothing that I am at all interested in hearing, unless you plan to send out more Seron warriors or perhaps another almor. I assure you, the last one was delicious.' He forced himself to grin despite the dryness in his mouth; for a moment his lips were stuck fast to his gums freezing his face in a virulent, toothy glare.

'Ah, yes, the staff you wield. How nice of Gilmour to make you that little toy. A nightlight to hold me at bay, is it? Let me assure you, the Larion weakling has no idea how powerful I have grown. I was stronger than him at Sandcliff, and I am even stronger now. Fantus will think he has come up against a god when we battle, and I will bask in his terror.' The grettan seemed to smile back at him as it shifted slightly in the snow and Steven tightened his grip on the wooden staff, hoping desperately the magic would rise to the occasion once again.

'Even now,' the grettan went on, 'though you stand only a few paces away, Fantus has no idea where you are.'

Steven dared not risk a glance over his shoulder to confirm the grettan's claim. He knew the beast would leap on him as soon as his attention shifted. But then he paused: why had it not torn him to pieces already? Why was it having a conversation with him instead of just breaking into the camp to retrieve Lessek's Key?

Suddenly, it made sense. Nerak was too far away to break Gilmour's canopy spell. Nerak the grettan could not enter. Emboldened, Steven spoke up. 'So what's this news you have for me, you evil piece of shit? Speak up. If you're hoping to trick me, it won't work. I know you can't enter this circle; and if you can, just bloody get on with it.' The staff grew warmer in his hands, apparently in response to his growing anger. 'I'll take my chances against you with Gilmour's toy.'

Unfazed, Nerak went on, 'The woman Hannah Sorenson.'

Steven's heart stopped. The gears keeping it beating stripped their cogs and ground together in a nearly audible breakdown. His mouth fell open, his eyes glazed with unshed tears. The staff, now ruby-red and throbbing with latent power, shook in his suddenly weakened hand. His knees felt like jelly and he had to force himself to stay standing.

'I assume from your struggle to find a witty retort the woman means something.' Once again, the grettan ran its long tongue over the dripping spikes lining its jaws. 'Well, Steven Taylor, I thought you might be interested to know that as we speak she is making her way through Praga to meet with Kantu, my other dear Larion colleague. Trust me, Kantu is as much use as Fantus; I could shit more destructive magic than those two simpering fops could ever hope to wield against me.

'But I lose my thread. Hannah Sorenson-' The grettan licked his lips in a positively lascivious manner; Steven wanted to retch. 'Hannah Sorenson.' The voice was sibilant now, as Nerak relished the sound of her name. 'Hannah, young Hannah. Such a pretty name. Such a pretty woman. And I will strip that prettiness from her like flaying a deer. The tortures Hannah Sorensen will suffer at my hands will be endless and nameless. She will suffer for aeons, and I assume it is your your name she will scream, over and over again, as I tear her mind apart from the inside out. I will leave her her tongue for a while, so I can listen to her agonies.' name she will scream, over and over again, as I tear her mind apart from the inside out. I will leave her her tongue for a while, so I can listen to her agonies.'

Watching Steven for a reaction, the grettan continued, 'Of course, her suffering will only truly begin after after I have destroyed her body.' I have destroyed her body.'

Anger and hatred exploded through Steven like the shock-wave of a subterranean volcano. It welled up inside him and any vague memories of Gilmour's lecture on the appropriate use of magic vanished in the heat of his fury. Wild with rage, the staff in his hands responded, now exuding a searing heat. It seemed to be willing him to strike out at the creature: Be the aggressor! Kill the motherless bastard! Be the aggressor! Kill the motherless bastard! He could feel it through his hands and wrists, and the muscles of his forearms rippled as Steven gave in. He could feel it through his hands and wrists, and the muscles of his forearms rippled as Steven gave in.

'No!' he screamed and brought the staff around in a killing stroke. Steven expected to feel the magic tear through the grettan's flesh as it had torn through the almor; he was shocked when he felt the force of his blow ripping through Gilmour's canopy like a flaming razor through tissue paper. An instant later, he realised his mistake. He had opened a rift in the protective spell and allowed Nerak to enter their camp unchecked.

'Thank you, my boy,' the grettan roared, leaping over him towards his unsuspecting companions.