Orindale's architecture reflected the region's resources: there were a great many wood and stone buildings with wood-shingle roofs and rock and mortar foundations. Steven guessed the stones were quarried somewhere nearby, or perhaps shipped in by the many great merchant vessels moored in the bustling harbour. The waterfront hummed with activity from dawn until well after dark. Although they saw plenty of soldiers, they were never stopped for more than routine questioning. Life in the Falkan capital went on as if no one had noticed or minded that they were encircled by an entire army.

One afternoon Garec brought back a crate of Falkan beer and they sat around their small fire eating from the old man's daily catch and drinking heartily from ceramic bottles.

Swallowing a mouthful of sudsy brew, Mark commented, 'The one thing I have yet to see is a bookshop. I would love to read some Eldarni history.'

Garec and Brynne both quieted at that.

'What did I say?'

Steven got it. 'No books?'

'Only outlaw copies,' Garec replied. 'Ancient books, those that survived the initial razing of all libraries and bookshops nearly a thousand Twinmoons ago.'

'When Prince Marek took the throne.'

'That's right,' Brynne answered, 'and closed the universities.'

'There's no school?' Mark was stunned.

'We all attend school until we're one hundred Twinmoons old.'

'Do they have books there?' Steven asked.

'Yes, but our history books only cover the period since the five lands of Eldarn were seized and ruled by Prince Marek's descendants. Even in school we don't have many books, so many people are illiterate.'

Mark looked glumly out the window and placed his bottle gently on the plank floor. 'No school. That's not right.'

'No, it isn't,' Brynne agreed. 'And it's one of the first things we would change should we win back Rona's freedom.' She stopped herself. 'I suppose now I should say Praga's freedom too Eldarn's freedom.'

'What about religious leaders?' Mark asked. 'Don't they act as teachers? Do they instruct in reading, writing and basic skills?'

Garec and Brynne exchanged glances before Brynne said, 'Our temples and sects were all destroyed by Prince Marek. For five generations we have had no organised religion.'

Garec added, 'We're told some religion survives in the north; many people worship the gods they believe inhabit the Northern Forest. But our religion is an oral tradition; it always has been. Now most Eldarni people grow up, raise families, grow old and die and never know or discuss religion in any way. It's safer.'

'Where do your core values develop?' Steven asked. 'Are there no institutions that help preserve a system of beliefs or traditions to define them over time?'

'Some are dictated by the Malakasian prince or princess.'

'Values can't be dictated,' Steven growled. 'They have to be fostered by well, by family, the local community, the faith-based organisations, even the government, I suppose.'

'I don't know that this is a function of any institution in Eldarn,' Garec tried to explain, 'as much as it is the evolution of ideals passed down from the days of the Larion Senate. Our values, traditions and beliefs may change according to the evolving make-up of any group, so one city's values may change as its populace ages. We've grown used to living this way because no one alive now has ever known anything different.'

'Most people wouldn't know the benefits of an organised religion,' Brynne said, 'because none of us can remember what it was like. That's why so few religious traditions have survived the occupation.'

'And as you've seen over the Twinmoon you've spent with us, war, death, violence, closed-mindedness, hatred and an assortment of other nasty behaviours have permeated our culture and been allowed to flourish here,' Garec continued on, 'and I'm a microcosm of that reality. I'm a skilled killer; it's one of my greatest strengths and it is the one thing about myself that I deplore, more than anything else.'

'So why continue to do it?' Steven tried to work his friend into a corner.

'Because I must. I am a member of the Resistance by choice and however hideous, it's a necessity.' He upended the beer bottle and drank deeply. 'I just hope the right leadership will emerge to help us all heal when this business is through.'

'I hope so, too,' Mark added, trying not to sound condescending.

'I know it must happen all the time, but it seems strange that a world so diverse as Eldarn would have gone so long without a faith or faiths impacting and shaping your culture.' The lack of religious beliefs and values still left Steven a little incredulous.

'When you don't know what you're missing, I suppose you don't miss anything,' Brynne said.

Mark's eyes grew wide and he stood suddenly, spilling his beer in a foamy puddle. 'Say that again.'

'What part?' Brynne asked.

'What you just said to Steven.'

She thought for a moment. 'When you don't know what you're missing, you don't miss anything?'

'Sonofabitch.' Mark turned to look out the window.

'I don't suppose that word translates into Ronan,' Garec grinned. Mark ignored him. 'Nerak. That's it.'

'What's it?' Steven stood as well.

'It is not what Nerak knows knows that is his weakness; it is what he that is his weakness; it is what he doesn't doesn't know.' know.'

Brynne took him by the arm. 'What doesn't Nerak know?'

Mark pointed towards the hickory staff leaning against the far wall of the shack they had been calling home. 'He doesn't know what's in there, for a start.'

THE NORTHERN WHARF.

On the morning of their fifth day in the shanty, Garec and Steven journeyed into town together. By now they had determined that Prince Malagon was indeed holed up in the old Falkan palace, although Steven had not yet summoned the courage to move far enough into the city to actually see the grounds. Somehow he knew Nerak would recognise him if he got within ten yards of the estate.

This morning, he and Garec were determined to get a better look at the Prince Marek Prince Marek. They didn't want to draw any attention to themselves, so they left their weapons in the shanty. Garbed in dark woollen cloaks, they looked like brothers striding together along the waterfront, heads down, deep in conversation.

Crossing the wide inlet via the stone bridge separating the northern and southern districts, Steven inhaled the ubiquitous aromas: woodsmoke, sewage, the harbour and the ocean. A fierce wind assailed them off the water. To their right, the river wound its circuitous path back through Orindale and south to the forests, Meyers' Vale and the Blackstone Mountains. To their left, it widened as the river coursed through the final leg of its interminable journey to the Ravenian Sea.

Steven remembered dreaming about this place, this very spot, and he turned his face towards the sun to bask for just a moment in the success of having made it this far.

Garec looked at him quizzically and asked, 'Anything wrong?'

Steven reached over and removed Garec's saddlebag from where it rested on his friend's shoulder. He unfastened the clasp and allowed the soft leather flap to fall open across his forearm, displaying the rudimentary map of the peaks they had made at the top of the first pass they had traversed. Running his thumb over the drawing scratched into the leather, he said, 'We've come a long way, Garec.'

The bowman pointed to a narrow groove running northwest across the cowhide atlas. 'That's the valley, the headwaters of this river.'

'We made it this far.'

Thinking of Versen, Gilmour, Sallax and others, Garec added grimly, 'Some of us did, anyway.'

Steven put a hand on Garec's forearm. 'Making it this far means we have a chance to set things right, to avenge our friends, maybe even to bring an end to Eldarn's nightmares. Mark's pretty convinced that Malagon will find the staff's magic a surprisingly adequate foe. I may not be as confident, but I'll do my damnedest. I have to. Getting Lessek's Key to Kantu is our only hope.'

'Let's hope that boat Mark's rigging will get us across then.'

Steven thought of the preparations Mark had been making to the small sailboat. 'It will. Mark's got sails, extra line and plenty of tar. Brynne is organising our supplies. All we need to do is figure out a way to get aboard the Prince Marek Prince Marek.'

Garec laughed. 'I forgot. We have the easy job.'

'Right,' Steven agreed half-heartedly. His attention was diverted by a small skiff making its way downriver and out of the inlet. He gestured across the bridge. 'Isn't that our friend the fisherman?'

Garec squinted, one hand above his eyes to block the bright morning sunlight. 'I think it is. Do we know his name yet?'

'I guess he doesn't want us to know it,' Steven replied.

'So if we're captured, we won't be able to turn him in.'

Steven watched as the small boat followed the shoreline south towards the southern piers and the shanty village beyond. 'For an old guy, he certainly can row: he moves that thing like a champion.'

'Nothing like a lifetime of practice, I suppose.'

Steven watched the fisherman another moment then suddenly stood up straight, using both hands to block the sun as he leaned across the bridge rail to watch the skiff disappear.

'What is it?' Garec asked.

'Nothing. I just thought I saw him wave.'

With their attention on the little boat, neither Garec nor Steven saw the tall figure wrapped in a dark robe and shouldering a walnut longbow as he strode silently past and headed towards the row of warehouses along the southern wharf.

A quarter-aven later, the two men took their first look at the Prince Marek Prince Marek, Malagon's personal sailing vessel, moored in the harbour off the northern wharf.

Steven voiced his first impression aloud. 'We'll never make it. We'd have to be on board for three days just to find his cabin.'

The ship was a behemoth. As Steven studied it from their vantage point on the pier, he felt his hopes sinking with each passing moment. 'The far portal could be anywhere. There are what? Six decks? Two hundred chambers? It's bloody gigantic.'

'And black.'

Black it was: the gigantic vessel floated silently in the harbour, dwarfing even the largest Pragan galleons several times over. Steven estimated her length at nearly four hundred feet, with a beam of well over one hundred and a draught of at least thirty-five running empty. Seven masts jutted proudly from her decks three mains, a foremast, a mizzen, a jib from the bow and a spanker flanking the quarterdeck and she was outfitted with enough rigging to tie down a rogue hurricane. The main mast sported five levels of sail, all reefed, as she rode at anchor. Two sets of topgallants towered over two sets of topsails hanging above a mainsail that would have easily blanketed the entire lot at 147 Tenth Street. The raised quarterdeck was as broad and as long as a basketball court and Steven marvelled at the size of the helm standing alone in its centre. 'He must have a giant in his crew just to move the tiller. I couldn't reach high enough to turn the wheel.

'Garec, where do ships like this come from? Jesus Highdiving Christ, how is it possible that there are farmers tilling the Ronan soil with wooden plough blades, and this behemoth can roll in here looking like Nelson's Victory Victory with a glandular problem?' with a glandular problem?'

Garec had been silent since they'd caught their first glimpse of the tremendous floating palace. 'That is the great irony of Eldarn, Steven. It illustrates how and where Prince Malagon Nerak, I suppose has focused the emphasis of his economic resources. We have no higher education, no research institutions and no hospitals worth a pinch of grettan shit, but that rutting horsecock sails around in that thing.' He gestured toward the remaining boats in the harbour. 'Look at the others. Naval vessels, merchant ships ... all of them state-of-the-art in their design. Nerak had Twinmoons and Twinmoons of Larion research and knowledge in his head when he left Sandcliff Palace, Steven, but he was very careful about which Eldarni institutions benefited from that knowledge over time.'

Steven shook his head. 'Well, no point in dwelling on it now. What do we do?'

'We'll have to enter along the stern line, there, aft beneath the quarterdeck.' Garec pointed to a thin black line that ran from the stern rail down into the water, barely visible against the hull.

'Why there?'

'She's too long for us to come up the anchor line in the bow and make it safely aft to the stern cabins. That's where Malagon's private cabin will be. He'll have the ship outfitted for his comfort. The raised quarterdeck provides enough room for a spacious apartment. I can't imagine Nerak would give up that level of comfort to the captain or his officers.'

'I bet you're right,' Steven answered. 'I can't see that many men above decks either.'

Garec nodded. 'Skeleton crew, maybe.'

'Why not? No one in the five lands of Eldarn would be crazy enough to attempt to board the prince's private yacht.'

'Or powerful enough to break through the army around the city. Malagon knows what resistance there is on land; here in the harbour, it would take the combined merchant and Resistance forces of the Eastlands and Praga just to take that ship. Most merchant vessels don't ride high enough in the water to get a grappling hook over her gunwales. They would need ten thousand fire-arrows to get her kindled, and I bet you a beer that whatever that black substance is that she's coated in doesn't burn too easily, either.'

'No thanks.' Steven frowned. 'I already lost my shirt to that old lady with the stones.'

Garec chortled and turned his gaze back towards the Prince Marek Prince Marek. 'So that's it, then. We'll sail Mark's boat out beyond her stern, towing something small we can paddle in, anchor, tie off to the stern line and board her from the quarterdeck.'

'Mark and I will climb aboard if you'll-'

Garec finished his thought. 'I'll stay in the skiff and take out anyone who approaches the stern rail.'

'Garec,' Steven offered, 'maybe I can come up with some spell to put them all to sleep for a few moments. I know the only effective magic I've been able to muster so far has been fireballs, tricky campfires or massive blasts, but maybe I can work something in between.'

'It's all right, Steven,' Garec assured him. 'We're close to the end. I can do it.' The Ronan ran one hand through the wavy brown hair that hung about his forehead. His eyes danced and he added, 'Perhaps I'll get lucky and they'll be firing back at us this time.'

Steven tried to swallow. 'Sure, lucky. Anyway, Mark and I will find Malagon's cabin, open the far portal and I'll leap back to Idaho Springs for Lessek's Key. Mark will steal the portal, rejoin you in the skiff and sail south along the coast.' Steven's heart raced at the thought of being home: he'd have a chance to confirm whether Hannah was still there, or had managed somehow to get home. He just needed a few hours to try to explain what had happened, or to confirm that she, too, had come through the portal to Eldarn.

'And I finally get to use this.' Garec held his wrist aloft, exposing Steven's watch.

'Exactly. You open the portal on this side every twelve hours at five o'clock.' Steven was using the English words so Garec got used to them. 'Leave it open until five-fifteen and if I don't appear, close it up and keep going.'

'And you have another watch somewhere in Colorado to know when it gets to be five clocks.'

'Oh yes,' Steven chuckled, 'no shortage of watches there.'

Garec stood tall and gazed across the harbour at the ominous black vessel, bobbing gently in the sheltered harbour. 'Very well, then. If the boat is ready, we should go tonight.'

Steven felt his stomach roil. 'Yes. Tonight.'

The two men returned south through the waterfront. Steven was hungry, anticipating a hearty last meal before setting out to board the great black ship. The trip seemed to take longer than it had coming into the city and by the time the two friends crossed the stone bridge over the inlet, the deep reddish-orange sun was setting across the Ravenian Sea. Above, dark clouds massed, heralding a coming storm. Garec and Steven pulled their hoods around their heads and held the folds tightly.

The normally bustling wharf was nearly abandoned and Steven mentally ticked off the final six warehouses as he and Garec passed them en route to a warm fire and a thick jemma steak.

Huddled in the shadows between the southernmost warehouses, the dark figure readied the walnut longbow, then withdrew a long black arrow and nocked it carefully. Chilled to the bone from his vigil, the archer breathed through his mouth to avoid smelling a forgotten crate of rotting fish. Rats scratched and clawed hungrily at the wooden slats lining the crate and he kicked them aside with the toe of his boot as he inched his way forward towards the warped plank walkway. His prey was approaching slowly; the bowman felt his heart thud in anticipation. Risking a glance around the corner, the hunter cursed in a hoarse whisper and retreated quickly into the shadows. The two men walking towards him had enveloped themselves within the folds of their cloaks and with the hoods drawn up, there was no way the archer could tell one from the other. Pulling his own hood back slightly, he glanced around the corner once again. They were much closer this time. Think! Think! he commanded himself. he commanded himself. I'll never get off a second shot; the customs men will be mustered and out here in a whore's breath I'll never get off a second shot; the customs men will be mustered and out here in a whore's breath.

Grimacing, he spat another curse at the rats beside his feet and then, watching as they scurried away, his mouth curled into a sly, tight-lipped grin.

Steven tallied warehouse number three before pulling his cloak tighter about him. 'I hope it doesn't rain tonight.'

'I don't think it will, but it's going to be cold.' Garec shrugged his own cloak closer. 'We'll need to stay dry if we hope to-'

A dull thud emanated from the insignificant space between the two men and Steven stopped, thinking Garec had accidentally dropped his saddlebag. In a heartbeat he knew what the sound had been. Garec was on his knees, an arrow protruding from his ribcage.