The spirit shook his head.

'Who did?' Steven felt anxiety begin to well up in him once again. This method of communication was so slow slow.

The wraith pointed towards the forest. Maybe he or they were off gathering food, water or firewood.

'Are my friends nearby? Can you bring them to me? Can you find them?'

Gabriel O'Reilly's spirit shook his head again, then extended a translucent finger into the air.

'One of them is searching for me? Who?'

The wraith rubbed the back of one smoky white hand across his cheek.

'The one with the dark skin, Mark? Yes! Will you guide him, Gabriel? I know you don't owe me anything, but please, will you bring Mark here?'

The spirit stared down at Steven for several seconds before nodding slightly.

Then, hesitantly, as if his abandonment of his friends and his failure to defeat the grettan somehow made him unworthy to wield it, Steven asked, 'Is my wooden staff here?'

Gabriel nodded again.

Steven asked, 'Do you know from where it gets its power?' When the wraith shrugged, he went on, 'But Malagon fears it?'

The spirit shrugged again and Steven said quickly, 'Right. How would you know? Sorry.' He felt out of sorts, awkward and vulnerable without the staff. Now that he was alone and incapacitated here in the forest, he was deeply embarrassed at his behaviour. He hoped his friends would forgive his impulsive stupid stupid decision to rush off in search of Hannah. As if one man, even with a magic stick, could face down Nerak ... Steven's face flushed as he imagined himself admitting that he had been attacked and nearly killed by a grettan less than a day later. decision to rush off in search of Hannah. As if one man, even with a magic stick, could face down Nerak ... Steven's face flushed as he imagined himself admitting that he had been attacked and nearly killed by a grettan less than a day later.

Steven turned his attention back to the wraith: he needed more information. 'There is a woman; she is special to me ... Lessek sent a dream, a vision, to me at least, I think he did. Anyway, I think the dream may be his way of telling me she is here.' Steven was waffling; he started again, 'I need to know if she is really here, in Eldarn.'

Again, Gabriel O'Reilly shrugged.

'That's all right. I had to try. I am just so so stuck stuck here, so lost.' Exhausted now, his voice trailed off. His head began to swim and he felt his vision fading. He tried to steel himself for more questions, but he lacked the strength. He made a final effort, croaking, 'Please, Gabriel, bring Mark Jenkins here.' here, so lost.' Exhausted now, his voice trailed off. His head began to swim and he felt his vision fading. He tried to steel himself for more questions, but he lacked the strength. He made a final effort, croaking, 'Please, Gabriel, bring Mark Jenkins here.'

This time the wraith nodded emphatically. He brought his facial features into focus, as he had on previous visits, and Steven realised O'Reilly was trying again to tell him something important.

'There is one-' He mouthed the words, but Steven did not understand.

'What?' Steven was drifting in and out of consciousness. 'Say it again.'

'There is one-' O'Reilly tried a second time, but Steven's eyes glazed over as his breathing steadied. Gabriel O'Reilly extended a nebulous hand, rested it on Steven's forehead for a moment, then slid through the trees towards the mountain pass behind them.

Garec stood up and backed slowly away from the body. 'He's dead,' he murmured to Brynne. 'I can't believe he's dead.' He filled his hands with snow and tried to wash off Gilmour's blood.

'He's not dead,' Brynne sobbed, 'he's going to be fine. He just needs some time.' Supporting Gilmour's head in her lap, Brynne looked as though she had been dipped in blood. Her face was streaked with tears and she coughed violently as she tried to regain her breath. She rolled up her sleeves and bared her forearms, then awkwardly pushed Gilmour's flesh around the knife, hoping to stem the flow of blood from the wound. Though her arms were stained red to the elbows, it appeared her efforts had been successful, because no additional blood was seeping out.

But Garec knew otherwise.

'He's dead, Brynne,' he said, reaching for her. 'That's why the bleeding has stopped. His heart isn't beating.'

Brynne's gaze dropped and she looked at the old man's drawn, grey visage. In a sudden burst of revulsion, she pushed the Larion Senator's body away and scrambled a backwards retreat across their camp to where her brother was still standing his silent vigil. Gilmour's ancient body looked smaller, thinner than it had earlier that day. Garec reached down to close an errant flap of tunic that had torn away to reveal ashen skin.

Now sobbing uncontrollably, Brynne collapsed at Sallax's feet. He reached down and placed one hand gently on his sister's shoulder, the first show of emotion since his encounter with Gabriel O'Reilly's spirit.

Garec looked around at the stoic lodge pines, tall and stately, ignoring the pitiful human drama being played out at their feet. This clearing, here in the Blackstone Mountains, was as close to a Larion Senate sanctuary as they would ever find outside Sandcliff Palace.

'We have to give him his rites,' he said softly. 'We have to burn his body.'

Dawn was breaking when Garec finished amassing enough tinder for Gilmour's pyre. Brynne had insisted on an enormous pile of prickly, dry tinder, to be certain their friend's body would burn entirely away, even in that cold, snowy wilderness. Sallax helped, and despite his sadness, Garec was heartened at his improvement.

Garec hacked away at the exposed limbs of several fallen trees, then trimmed off the lowest hanging branches from a circle of lodge pines ringing the clearing. He felt a wave of fear and loneliness pass over him, turning his stomach and causing a moment of dizziness. The clearing seemed to brighten as his pupils dilated and his head swam. Angrily, he fought off the urge to cry. They were too far from home, in too much danger from freezing to death, being killed by grettans, Seron, an almor, let alone whatever other monstrosities Malagon was saving up for them. He had to keep himself under control.

Sallax methodically gathered branches; save for the gentle touch he offered his sister, he showed no other emotion, and said nothing. Brynne knelt near Gilmour, her bloodstained hands wrapping the body tightly into his cloak and brushing hair away from his cold forehead. Garec knew he would have to keep them moving, to keep them busy, or they would lose hope. Perhaps even he would lose hope.

A thick branch, still green, snapped back and struck Garec in the face. The stinging sensation across his already cold cheek was painful and he felt tears welling up behind his eyes. He choked back an almost inaudible, 'No,' and began chopping furiously. His vision blurred, but he continued hacking with all his might, cutting and chipping away at the majestic pine as if it it had murdered Gilmour. The branch fell away, but Garec continued to chop at the tree trunk. had murdered Gilmour. The branch fell away, but Garec continued to chop at the tree trunk. He He was guilty. was guilty. He He had fallen asleep, drifting off while standing watch. He had been awake a moment later, but it was a moment too late. Visions of the killer's knife sticking out of Gilmour's chest flashed through Garec's mind and his rage grew. had fallen asleep, drifting off while standing watch. He had been awake a moment later, but it was a moment too late. Visions of the killer's knife sticking out of Gilmour's chest flashed through Garec's mind and his rage grew.

Brynne and Sallax turned when they heard his scream, but neither made a move to comfort him. They watched, nearly motionless, as the young man's anger played itself out. Then his arms, weak from effort, slowed, and his determination to bring down the entire Blackstone forest was thwarted before even one of the proud, disinterested trees fell.

Despite the thick wool cloak, Gilmour's body looked tiny on the pyre of freshly cut branches. Brynne thought perhaps the magic of the Larion Senate had kept him robust despite his age. Now, with his magic gone, only a hollow shell of the great leader remained, like Riverend Palace: a broken monument to a fallen era of strength and prosperity.

Brynne watched as Garec drew a burning branch from the fire. She felt the urge to say something. There they were, the three of them, responsible for the funeral rites of one of the most powerful, the most influential heroes in Eldarn. It would be wrong just to set fire to his body without offering a eulogy or prayer of some sort.

'We ought to say a few words.'

Garec hesitated, then returned the branch to the fire, kneeled in the snow and told her, 'Absolutely. You're right. Say what you think ...' Behind him the sun crested above the distant peaks; to the north a storm was brewing.

Brynne looked at the billowy, slate-grey clouds, searching for the words, but nothing came. A feeling of abject despair crept up on her once again, and she muttered, 'Someone else should be doing this. Someone eloquent. Someone powerful. We were just his friends. For most of our lives we never even knew who he really was.'

'Maybe that's enough.' Sallax spoke for the first time in days. Garec looked up in surprise.

Seemingly unaware of her brother's comment, Brynne steeled herself and went on, 'His goal was to save Eldarn, to bring peace and hope back to the people of the world.' She paused, thinking of the hopelessness of their situation. They probably wouldn't make it to Orindale alive, never mind find a way to retrieve Lessek's Key and return Steven and Mark to Colorado.

'What can we do now, Gilmour?' she asked rhetorically, her voice dropping to a whisper as she turned and nodded at Garec.

The flames began as a flicker at the base of the entangled branches and Garec thought he would have to ignite the tinder a second time to make sure it took. Just as he was reaching to light another branch from their little fire, a great cloud of smoke blew through the camp and the pyre burst into flame with an audible roar. Thousands of pine needles crackled and caught and fire danced around Gilmour, an ancient volta volta of spiralling scarlet and orange and vermilion and yellow ... of spiralling scarlet and orange and vermilion and yellow ...

Garec's secret hope, that the old man might wake suddenly and spring to safety before his flesh burned away, disappeared with the pine boughs. The Larion Senator lay impossibly still as his cloak and then his hair caught fire. Garec turned towards the trees, unable to watch any longer.

'Come on,' he said as he hefted his and then Gilmour's pack. 'We have a long way to go today if we're going to catch up with Mark and Steven.'

Brynne was clinging to Sallax's arm, looking as if she might collapse if she let go, but she wiped a sleeve across her eyes and bent to retrieve her own pack. Sallax watched the flames a moment longer, then turned to join his sister.

They left the clearing and started moving north. The storm they had seen on the horizon was much closer now and Garec knew it would be upon them long before they reached whatever meagre shelter they could find inside the far tree line.

They were several hundred paces out in an exposed snowfield before any of them realised the fire had spread to the surrounding forest. Branches that had been difficult to ignite now burned readily in the chilly dawn breeze. Garec smelled the aroma of wood smoke and spun round to view his handiwork. Several towering lodge pines were burning brightly in the morning sun and he watched impassively as the fire spread like spilled quicksilver along the hillside. Somehow it seemed fitting that Gilmour's funeral would be more than just another pyre of sweet-smelling pine and burning flesh. It was appropriate that the forest would burn with the Larion Senator's body, the sanctuary itself collapsing onto its once-powerful leader.

Brynne had struggled to find something to say as they stood over the old man's broken form. This was better. Garec wiped tears from his cheek and gripped his longbow as he watched the flames reach into the sky like prayers falling on a god's deaf ear.

The Bringer of Death had destroyed the sanctuary. He had burned down the walls of the very place he had hoped Gilmour's spirit would call home for all time. He pulled his cloak close and silently hoped he would be strong when the day came to reckon for his transgressions.

Huge clouds of black and grey smoke climbed above them and they could feel the heat of the flames as they tore through the forest like the last act of a rogue demon.

'Actually,' Brynne said, 'it is quite beautiful.'

'Yes,' Garec agreed, 'and it may serve to let Mark and Steven know where we are.' He adjusted the hunting knife at his belt, shifted the crisscrossed straps of his dual quivers, turned back north and led the others through the snow.

'It does end an era,' Sallax said, but neither Brynne nor Garec heard him over the roaring flames and northerly winds. 'Or maybe it begins an era.' He cleared his throat, spat back towards the blaze and turned to follow Brynne over the pass.

THE STORM.

Private Kaylo Partifan, a soldier in Prince Malagon's Home Guard, tried unobtrusively to scratch at an irritating itch beneath his tunic. He stood at sentry outside the prince's royal apartments; his watch was nearly over. His chainmail vest was weighing heavily on his shoulders and the wool tunic beneath was nearly driving him mad. He was not permitted to move whilst on sentry duty, so he bit down hard on his tongue to distract himself from the agony. It didn't work.

Quickly peering up and down the darkened corridor, he brought one arm up, worked two fingers beneath the chainmail and began scratching furiously at his shoulder.

Across from him, Lieutenant Devar Wentra, his platoon leader and friend, smiled knowingly at the younger man. Kaylo himself would never dare speak while on duty, but Devar whispered softly, 'You had better hope the prince doesn't see you doing that.'

Kaylo smiled back and considered chancing a brief response when an ear-splitting roar exploded from Prince Malagon's chambers.

Visibly shaken, Devar said out loud, 'Lords, now you've done it, Kaylo.'

The private snapped to attention, his itch forgotten as he felt the prince's approach through the wall.

The door to the royal apartments was nearly torn from its hinges as Prince Malagon burst into the hallway. Kaylo felt his heart pound. He was sure the prince could see it.

Malagon's voice reverberated in the sentries' heads, nearly knocking them senseless. 'Lieutenant Wentra! Do you smell that?'

Devar could not remember the dark prince ever looking at one of his Home Guard, never mind addressing any of them face-to-face. Terrified, he fell to one knee and asked meekly, 'Smell what, sire?'

Malagon's shriek was a mixture of ecstasy and frustration. The lieutenant slumped face-first to the floor. Private Partifan stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed on a crooked seam between two stones. He was quite certain he could stare at that small patch of grey mortar for the rest of his life if necessary.

'Kaylo Partifan,' Prince Malagon called, gesturing towards him with a robed arm from which protruded a cadaverous white hand.

Kaylo dropped to his knees as if he had been struck in the back of the legs with a broadsword. 'Yes, sire.'

'Do you smell that?'

'I am sorry, sire. I do not, sire.' He hoped that was the right answer.

'It is woodsmoke,' Malagon roared, making Kaylo jump. 'Woodsmoke, a Twinmoon's journey away. Woodsmoke, Private Partifan.'

'Yes, sire.'

'They're burning his body, his dead, broken, frail, dead dead little body.' little body.'

'Yes, sire,' Kaylo said. That response seemed to be keeping him alive.

'Fantus, you old, dead dead, peace-loving milksop,' Malagon chuckled. It was the sound of an insane executioner after a lifetime at the block.

'Yes, sire.'

'Now, my soulless hunters, bring me the key,' the dark prince cried towards the ceiling, and coupled his order with a little jump of excitement. It was so inappropriate and unusual that Kaylo shuddered.

'And while you're at it, feel free to finish off the rest of his little band of patriots,' Malagon continued. 'Do you not agree, Private Partifan?'

'I do, sire.' He had no idea what the prince was talking about, but he certainly wasn't going to disagree with anything his master said.

Suddenly reserved once again, Malagon turned and made his way, almost floating, back to his chambers.

'Private Partifan,' he turned back, almost as an afterthought.

'Sire?'

'Order the Prince Marek Prince Marek readied. We leave on the dawn tide two days hence.' readied. We leave on the dawn tide two days hence.'

Kaylo was terrified. If he asked where the prince planned to travel, he would be struck dead there in the corridor, his body sprawled alongside Devar's. But the prince's advisors and generals would surely hang him themselves if he arrived at the docks with an order and no destination.

Malagon was feeling generous. 'Orindale, Private Partifan. Tell them we sail for Orindale.'

'Yes, sire.' The soldier did not wait for Prince Malagon's chamber door to slam closed once again before he was up and hurrying along the corridor.

Mark Jenkins was freezing to death. The pace he had maintained had taken its toll. As his vision tunnelled and bright pinpricks of yellow light danced before his eyes, he knew he was about to fail. He had eaten a great quantity of snow trying to stay hydrated and his body temperature was falling. He had finished the last of his rations the previous day and hunger pangs were roiling through his stomach. Dehydration made his joints ache and he began falling to his knees more frequently. The first few tumbles he had rationalised by telling himself he was weary from running through deep snow, but he knew his legs were failing beneath him. If he did not get warm and dry he would most likely pass out ... and if that happened, he would never wake again.

How had he managed to get himself into this state? He was alone, and lost in a foreign mountain range, in a foreign world not just a foreign world, but an impossible world, a fantasy world: a land that by rights shouldn't even exist. And who was this person who was dragging Steven so effortlessly over such massive mountain passes?

Mark struggled to lift one leg, and then repeated the motion with the other. Again and again. Lift and step Lift and step; lift and step lift and step. Completely exhausted, his thoughts came in short bursts, brief snapshots like old black and white photographs, followed by long, silent periods of nothing: no images, no ideas, or no reflections. Those were the better times. Those were times when he covered a great deal of ground, when all he could think was lift and step lift and step and all he could see was white and green. He continued his battle not because he believed he could summon the strength to defeat Steven's captors or even because he believed he could carry his friend off through the forest. He resigned himself to the fact that neither of those outcomes was realistic. Rather, he continued trudging across the Blackstone Mountain range, because he could generate no other options, no creative ways to save his own life. Keep moving or die. It was a simple but motivating mantra and Mark mumbled it to himself during times when his thoughts came too rapidly to sort. Keep moving or die. and all he could see was white and green. He continued his battle not because he believed he could summon the strength to defeat Steven's captors or even because he believed he could carry his friend off through the forest. He resigned himself to the fact that neither of those outcomes was realistic. Rather, he continued trudging across the Blackstone Mountain range, because he could generate no other options, no creative ways to save his own life. Keep moving or die. It was a simple but motivating mantra and Mark mumbled it to himself during times when his thoughts came too rapidly to sort. Keep moving or die.

So he kept moving.

Mark spent the night dug into a snowdrift with his back pressed against a fallen pine tree, but the night was long. Some time before dawn the torch burned out, snuffed suddenly, as if the force keeping it lit had somehow lost track of Mark's position. He was so thirsty he had eaten nearly twenty handfuls of snow, even though he knew his body would cool quickly and expend much-needed energy. But he was so so thirsty. He decided he would risk death to begin the next day well hydrated. thirsty. He decided he would risk death to begin the next day well hydrated.

Mark lay there beneath the unfamiliar constellations he had mapped so carefully one warm night back in Rona. He and Brynne had named them as they huddled together under the blankets. There was the one Brynne called the fisherman the fisherman, because it resembled a man casting a net across half the galaxy. Another lit up the sky to the north; Mark had affectionately dubbed it Tarzan Tarzan, because it looked like a man swinging towards heaven on a celestial vine. As he looked at the stars, he thought of Brynne, the feeling of her body pressed tightly against his, the smell of her hair, the touch of her lips, her gentle, clever fingers ... lost in the sweet memories, for a moment the omnipresent cold and fear faded.

Mark's half-dream was rudely interrupted as, from the north, a squall-line of grim-looking storms approached fast. An alarm rang in the back of his mind, but he could do nothing about it. He did not have the strength to build a fire, nor dry the wood even if he could summon the energy. He would be buried alive if he tunnelled beneath the snow for shelter. The coming storm would cover the trail he had been following; if they deviated from their northward course, Mark would never find Steven in the Blackstone wilderness.

He looked at the hillside below, then at his boots, buried beneath him in the snow. How many miles had he travelled? How many places had he seen? It would end here. The whole of the world, his his world Eldarn it didn't matter, because the whole of the world ended here, with his feet buried in the snow, here in this place. world Eldarn it didn't matter, because the whole of the world ended here, with his feet buried in the snow, here in this place.

'That's it, then,' Mark murmured and began searching around for a suitable place to await the end. He was alone. That That thought was stronger than the fear, or the cold, or the worry about Steven and Brynne. Mark recalled a preacher at his mother's church, who regularly entreated congregation members to foster healthy relationships in the Lord's name, so when death came, no one would feel alone. Now, dragging himself through knee-deep snow, Mark wondered whether, if he had been better about going to church, he would still feel so alone at this moment. thought was stronger than the fear, or the cold, or the worry about Steven and Brynne. Mark recalled a preacher at his mother's church, who regularly entreated congregation members to foster healthy relationships in the Lord's name, so when death came, no one would feel alone. Now, dragging himself through knee-deep snow, Mark wondered whether, if he had been better about going to church, he would still feel so alone at this moment.

He feared it was true, but it was too late. He was about to die by himself on the side of an Eldarni mountain.

Finding something that looked like a stalwart old ponderosa growing near a rock outcropping, Mark removed his pack, sat heavily on the cold stone and leaned against the tree to watch as the storm blew in overhead. It was then he smelled woodsmoke, faint at first, then growing stronger. Mark craned his neck to look back towards the mountain pass, now a long way behind him. A curious cloud of dark smoke blew across the peak where a downdraught captured it and brought it racing to where he sat awaiting the coming blizzard. 'Sonofabitch! Garec? Brynne,' he mumbled with the last of his strength, 'did you set the whole goddamn mountain on fire?' Clenching his frozen fingers into stiff, painful fists, he added in a barely audible whisper, 'You're going to have to find Steven, guys. I'm done here.'

The view from his perch was beautiful. There was not a peak, a tree or boulder out of place, and Mark wished he could stay awake longer to appreciate the natural perfection of the valley they had fought so hard to reach. He tried to focus his thoughts on Brynne, but it wasn't long before his eyes closed of their own accord and he drifted away.

'Jacrys.'

The Malakasian spy woke with a start. Rolling over quickly, he reached out to brace himself and realised he had planted his hand firmly in the burned-down coals of his campfire. 'Blast and rutting dogs!' he cried, driving his scorched palm into the snow beside his bedroll.