He was still appreciating the intricacies of the window by moonlight when Mark nudged him gently in the ribs. His roommate gestured towards the window's lower left corner, from where a soft, eerie glow emanated. Steven understood they were not alone. There were others waiting inside.

SOUTH BROADWAY AVENUE, DENVER.

'Have you tried him at the bank?' Jennifer Sorenson hefted an oak rocking chair to Hannah, who was perched in the back of a customer's pick-up truck. 'He must be at work today.'

Hannah wiped her forehead across the shoulder of her T-shirt, leaving a small wet stain. It was cooler in the street than inside the antique shop, and she welcomed the job of loading several purchases for an elderly couple.

'No, I tried there and Mr Griffin said he hadn't seen him all morning. Apparently they were at the pub last night, but Steven left early with Mark. I tried him a few times at home but only got his machine.' She nodded thanks to her mother as Jennifer handed her a length of rope.

She began tying two small end tables together. 'I mean, I can understand if he wanted a night away from me. We've been talking three or four times a day and I do feel a little like I'm back in seventh grade, but why would he miss work today?'

'Maybe they had too much to drink,' her mother suggested. 'They might be home with the phone unplugged, nursing massive hangovers.'

'Not him, he's too responsible for that, and Mark sounds the same. I know they both drink some, but missing work? It doesn't fit.'

'Well, you're supposed to go out tonight, right?' Jennifer asked and, seeing Hannah nod, said, 'Go home. Get ready and see if he calls. If not, try him again, but Hannah, things happen. People sometimes find that-'

'Yes, I understand he could be avoiding me, but I'm telling you it's not like him.' She accented her point by pulling a half-hitch tight against the pick-up's bed. 'We moved very quickly into this relationship and if he's running, it's as much my fault as his. I just want to know nothing happened to him last night, because even if he were dumping me already, he wouldn't be missing work.'

Hannah jumped lightly to the sidewalk, shook hands with the customers and waved as they drove off along Broadway.

Jennifer Sorenson wrapped one arm affectionately around her daughter's shoulders. 'I'm sure he's not dumping you, and if he is, then he's the wrong one anyway.'

'Thanks but I'll be okay. Maybe I'll drive up there tonight and ask him what's going on. If he really is sick, he might be glad to see me. And if I'm getting dumped, I'd just as soon have him do it before I haul myself to the Decatur Peak trailhead at 4.30 tomorrow morning.' She returned her mother's embrace. 'I could use the extra sleep and you could use the help here on a Saturday.'

'Well, it's after 5.00 already. You go home and get ready. I'll get things cleaned up and close the place down. If you're still home when I get back, I'll take you out tonight.'

'Thanks, Mom.' Hannah gently kissed her mother on the temple.

She unlocked the chain securing her bike to a wrought-iron bench in front of the store and jumped astride for the quick ride across the neighbourhood. Her helmet dangled loosely from the handlebars and Jennifer scolded her from the store entrance. 'The helmet belongs on your head, Hannah.'

Donning the helmet, Hannah shouted back, 'Is that where it goes? I've been wondering where all these damned bumps on my head were coming from. I'm sure I've lost forty, maybe fifty IQ points crashing into things this summer. Oh well, you'll have an unmarried, brain-damaged daughter to look after in your old age.' Shooting her mother a bright smile, she pedalled off.

Jennifer Sorenson allowed the door to close behind her and stood for a moment gathering her thoughts. Twenty-seven years later and she was still amazed at how much love, worry and compassion a parent could feel. It had begun the moment Hannah was first placed in her arms, and had continued unabated, day and night, for the next three decades. As a younger woman, she would never have guessed that raising a child would be the most meaningful and important thing she would do in her life. Feeling inadequate, unable to help Hannah deal with the potential heartbreak of a failed relationship, she quickly opened the door again, stepped outside and called quietly, 'Be careful, Hannah.' Her daughter was already several blocks away; she couldn't hear, but Jennifer, feeling better, returned inside to close up the shop.

Hannah arrived home to find no answer to any of her telephone messages. Showering quickly, she donned jeans, her running shoes and an old wool sweater she had bought in high school. Grabbing car keys and a Gore-tex jacket, she left the house for the drive up Clear Creek Canyon. Hannah disliked handbags, preferring instead to slip a thin leather wallet into her jacket or the back pocket of her jeans. She rarely wore make-up, but for those rare occasions when she needed the extra boost, she had a backpack with an array of beauty products stuffed haphazardly inside. Secretly, she was glad tonight was not an evening that merited that degree of preparation; she left the backpack on a chair.

Traffic was heavy heading west into the mountains. The ski season wasn't yet underway, but October weekends meant changing aspens, and Interstate 70 was jammed with carloads of what the locals called 'leaf peepers'. She didn't want to grow too frustrated with Steven before she knew why he had been avoiding her, so she rolled down the windows and tried to enjoy the crisp autumn evening. She loved the fall and started looking forward to the changing season with the first cool evenings that blew through Denver in late August.

Hannah left the majority of motorists to continue west while she turned off and followed Clear Creek into Idaho Springs. She was surprised to find both Steven's and Mark's vehicles parked in the driveway outside 147 Tenth Street. From the dusting of snow colouring the pavement it was obvious that neither car had been moved. Either the boys had walked to work this morning and been delayed somewhere, or they had never left the house at all.

Lights were on in the front room, hallway and kitchen, but she didn't see anyone moving about inside. She knocked on the side door, but no one answered. As she knocked again, she moved the barbecue grill on their porch and reached under the back wheel for the spare key Steven had used the weekend before. When the door remained unanswered, she took a deep breath and let herself inside.

Almost immediately, Hannah sensed something wrong in the house. She felt a strange sensation; she thought she could feel the air shimmering against her flesh, as if a window had been left cracked open during a hurricane. Reaching the living room, she saw what looked like static electricity, dancing in the air.

'Steven,' she called to the empty house, 'are you here? Mark?' No one answered and she stood riveted by the yellow and green lights flickering dimly above the disintegrating, secondhand sofa the boys seemed to love for reasons she couldn't even begin to fathom. The peculiar nature of the shimmering atmosphere made her uncomfortable and she decided to leave a note for Steven before continuing her search for him in town.

'Maybe they're down at Owen's,' she muttered to herself, looking for a sheet of paper. Against one wall was Steven's desk and she walked towards it, hoping to find something on which to scribble a quick message.

Discovering no pens on the desk, Hannah slid the wooden chair back and pulled open the top drawer and as she did so, the odd lights and rippling air suddenly went completely still, as if they were operated by a hidden switch someone had just thrown in a different room.

'What the hell?' she asked, looking down at her feet. She hadn't immediately noticed that the coffee table had been pushed back against the couch to accommodate a strange cloth tapestry rolled out on the wooden planks of the living room floor. She crouched down to feel the material between her fingers. It was smooth, but unlike any fabric she had ever seen, and it had been stitched meticulously, decorated with a series of symbols and shapes. Some appeared to be primitive caricatures of trees and mountains, but many were unusually shaped runes she did not recognise from any period in history. The cloth was obviously an antique, but she struggled to date the piece. She could not remember her grandfather ever showing her such an odd ornamentation style.

'Your taste surprises me, Steven,' Hannah announced to the empty room. She decided she would have to learn more about the tapestry once she had found him.

She turned back to the drawer, not noticing that the back legs of the chair she had slid across the floor had caused the cloth to bunch up on itself. Still no pen or pencil, not even a chewed stub. She closed the drawer and looked over at the log mantle above the fireplace. Several pens stood in an old fraternity mug near a photo of Mark Jenkins standing proudly next to a mountain bike atop what Hannah guessed was Trail Ridge Road in the national park.

'Bingo,' she announced, starting across the tapestry. Without thinking, she reached out with one hand and pushed the wooden chair back into place under the desk. The folds of wrinkled material flattened out against the cold floorboards and Hannah Sorenson disappeared from the room.

THE FIREPLACE.

'Garec, Sallax.' Versen Bier waved to them from across the ancient hall. 'Where have you been all day?' Gazing into the half-light at the far end of the narrow chamber, Steven saw a group of workers hauling large wooden boxes down stone steps to a room beneath the palace's ground floor. Torchlight brought some hazy visibility to the otherwise dark room, but not enough for Steven to see what was stored in the crates. The woodsman started towards the small group. He was a powerful-looking man with sandy brown hair, boyish features and muscular forearms, and dressed similarly to Garec and Sallax. In his belt he wore a long hunting knife and a small double-bit axe that looked honed to a razor's edge.

'Well, Sallax, look at your nose,' Versen said, smiling. 'What happened to you?'

'He did,' Sallax answered dryly, motioning towards Mark.

'Aha. And who have we here?' the woodsman asked the two foreigners. 'From the look of your bonds, I'd say spies. Unless of course you're making an innovative fashion statement and you expect all of us to be dressed this way in the coming Twinmoons.'

'We're not spies,' Steven told him matter-of-factly.

Noticing Mark's face, Versen asked, 'Oh? And what happened to you?'

Mark forced a grin and nodded towards Sallax. 'He did.'

Steven, Versen and Garec all chuckled, and Sallax turned towards the wall to avoid making eye-contact with any of them. Hearing laughter coming from the group, Brynne moved across the abandoned dining hall to join them.

'Am I the only one who finds it odd you're all laughing together? Especially when two of you are tied up?' she asked. She was sweating openly from hauling boxes, but Mark found her curiously attractive, despite her grimy appearance.

Garec put his arm around Brynne's shoulders and led her to stand before the two strangers. 'This is Mark Jenkins and Steven Taylor. They are from Color- Colorado?' He looked to Steven, who nodded. 'Apparently, they fell through a magic tapestry they stole ... no, found found, and were transported to the beach near the point.'

Sallax interjected, 'Or they're spies from Malakasia, here to gather information on the Resistance.'

'Dressed like that?' Brynne asked incredulously.

'That was my point,' Steven ventured. He had been working to loosen the leather thongs that held his wrists behind his back, but he didn't think he was making much progress: the sting from the straps rubbing against his raw flesh burned more painfully with each attempt. Giving up for the moment, he looked through the hall and realised that the palace had at one point been the victim of an enormous fire. The smell of ancient creosote lingered in the air and he could feel the gritty texture of ashes beneath his boots.

He knew the longer he and Mark could keep their captors talking, the more information they would glean, and the greater their chances of escape would be, once they freed themselves if they freed themselves.

Once again, Steven relaxed his mind and let the foreign words come. 'What's your name?' he asked the girl.

'I'm called Brynne Farro,' she answered, rubbing a thin forearm across her sweat-streaked brow.

'Brynne Farro,' he asked, 'would you have some water, or some food? It's been a long day and we haven't eaten since-'

'You'll eat when I tell you to eat,' Sallax interrupted harshly. 'Brynne, take them upstairs and lock them in one of the apartments on the third level.'

'Why don't you do it?' she asked.

'Because, my dear sister, I am going to take over your duties hauling boxes downstairs.' Sallax handed her his hunting knife. 'If they make any move to escape, cut their throats.' To Mark and Steven he added, 'I would advise you not to test her ability with that knife, my strangely outfitted friends. She is deftly skilled with any number of weapons.'

Garec gave Brynne some leather straps and she motioned her two captives towards the huge staircase at the far end of the hall. As they passed the stacks of wooden crates, Steven risked a glimpse into one that had not yet been nailed shut.

'They're weapons,' he whispered in English. 'That box must contain thousands of arrows, just like the ones Garec fired at us this morning.'

'Well, they're obviously mobilising for action against this Malathing character.' Mark hesitated. Above them on the landing, Brynne watched as they carried on their conversation. She held a small torch to illuminate their way upstairs. Mark decided she was quite lovely. Her pale skin contrasted strikingly with her dark brown hair, and although slightly built, he could see that she was wiry and athletic. He imagined she had learned to hold her own in a fight, especially growing up with a brother like Sallax. The way she held his hunting knife, blade forward, ready to slash any would-be attacker, proved his suspicion. Yet she had the porcelain-smooth hands of a woman who, when time allowed, cared for her appearance. At that moment, Mark wanted to be free from his bonds for no other reason than to reach beyond the knife's edge and touch those perfect hands.

Brynne looked at them curiously. 'What is that language you speak?'

'It's the language we use in Colorado, and the region around our home,' Steven answered in Ronan, the words coming more quickly now.

'We're not certain how we learned your language. It must have happened to us when we were brought here,' Mark added. He changed the subject. 'Can you tell us why you are hiding weapons under the floor of this old castle?'

Brynne squinted into the darkness towards her friends, then motioned for Steven and Mark to continue following her upstairs. 'I will tell you as we go,' she whispered. They reached the second floor and Steven could see what might have been a large audience chamber at the end of a short hallway leading from the landing. The remains of a throne stood atop a slightly elevated dais. Charred and blackened in the fire, the ruined chair seemed to be patiently waiting for the return of a flawed king. Steven's view of the chamber faded to black as Brynne continued up the staircase and the light from the torch followed her away.

'If you are spies, then you know why we hoard weapons. If you're not spies- Well, I don't know where you come from.' They had reached the uppermost landing of the grand staircase and were high above the hall where they'd started their climb. She stopped and turned to face them. 'We have been under Malakasian occupation for as long as anyone can remember, four or five generations. Malagon Whitward is an evil and violent man, and the occupation soldiers grow more and more heavy-handed as they keep the peace keep the peace here in Rona.' She brushed a lock of hair away from one eye and then, frustrated, pushed a handful behind her neck. 'We are fighting to win our freedom, the right to govern ourselves, to make our own laws and to live in a free nation, not an occupied one.' here in Rona.' She brushed a lock of hair away from one eye and then, frustrated, pushed a handful behind her neck. 'We are fighting to win our freedom, the right to govern ourselves, to make our own laws and to live in a free nation, not an occupied one.'

'That sounds reasonable,' Steven said quietly.

'It is,' Mark agreed. 'Those same goals have fuelled revolution after revolution throughout time. I suppose I'm not surprised it's the same here ... wherever here here is.' is.'

'But you need to understand,' Steven interjected, 'that none of this has anything to do with us. We are lost. We made a terrible mistake ... I I made a terrible mistake, one that brought us here, and we need to find someone who can help us get back.' He strained to look into her face, hoping for some glimmer of compassion. 'Do you know of made a terrible mistake, one that brought us here, and we need to find someone who can help us get back.' He strained to look into her face, hoping for some glimmer of compassion. 'Do you know of anyone anyone who would believe us and be able to help us?' who would believe us and be able to help us?'

Brynne hesitated for a moment, then said, 'I do. He's supposed to be here, but we're not certain if he's coming back. If anyone would know how to help you, it would be him.' She drew a deep breath and allowed it to escape slowly as she added, 'Ironically, though, he may be the one who orders your death. If you truly are are lost, and not Malakasians, then I hope he helps you. We've seen so much death here: Malagon just murders us at will. lost, and not Malakasians, then I hope he helps you. We've seen so much death here: Malagon just murders us at will.

'I would hate to see the two of you killed if you are innocent ... especially killed by Ronans. We're supposed to be the good ones.' Brynne used Sallax's knife to gesture down a long stone corridor. Steven understood they were to move along the hall to their cell.

'Why can't you-' Mark started, trying to keep her talking, but she held up a hand to stop him.

'No,' she said firmly, 'no more talking now.' They walked in silence past several doorways until they reached the final chamber off the hall. A large wooden door, charred black and burned almost through, hung awkwardly from one broken hinge. Brynne pushed it aside and motioned for the two men to enter. In the torchlight, Steven and Mark could see the room had been the foyer for a series of rooms. Given the number and size of the chambers, it was evident someone of importance once lived here. A stone fireplace took up most of one wall.

Brynne ordered them to sit on either side of a blackened beam supporting the ceiling in the front room. She threaded several leather straps between the beam and the wall and tied an intricate knot to fasten both men's bonds to the wooden support. Lifting her torch, she took a last look at Mark Jenkins, slipped the knife into her belt and ducked beneath the broken doorframe into the hallway beyond.

Total darkness quickly swept through the room and for several moments, Steven and Mark sat in silence. Finally, Mark said, 'Well, she seemed nice.'

Laughing, an uncontrolled response to fear, Steven replied, 'Sure, maybe she'll take you home to meet her parents, but make sure you have her in by eleven, young man, or her brother will hack you to fishfood with his battle-axe.'

Mark started laughing too. 'Look, I don't even want to think about where we are, or how we got here, or how we are both fluent in a language that doesn't exist. Let's just get untied, get down those stairs and find a way out of this building. Do you have your pocketknife?'

'No,' Steven responded, dejected. 'It's on the kitchen counter.'

'Terrific. You jumped through a magic rug, a stolen stolen magic rug, into a new world, perhaps even a new time, and you didn't bring a pocketknife?' magic rug, into a new world, perhaps even a new time, and you didn't bring a pocketknife?'

'Hey, I thought I was stepping to certain death,' Steven said. 'You were gone. I figured you'd been vaporised or some damned thing and I was sure I was stepping into oblivion. So excuse me if I didn't figure I'd need a corkscrew in the afterlife.'

'You're right. It was brave, what you did. Stupid, but brave. Me, I just tripped on the hearthstone and fell onto the damned thing.' Mark struggled to loosen the straps holding him to the beam. 'If we work on these all night, I bet we can get free. We have to get out of here before the sun comes up.'

Some time later it began to rain, plummeting down as if determined to wash southern Rona out to sea. The strong winds they had felt on the beach earlier that day continued through the evening, blowing sheets of raindrops into the chamber through a broken window to puddle on the stone floor. The din of the torrential downpour coupled with the howling wind made it impossible for them to hear if anyone was approaching from the hallway, so Steven kept a tired eye on the broken door hanging between them and their captors. They persisted in their efforts to loosen or cut through the leather straps: one would rub his end of the leather thongs up and down against the beam a hundred times while the other rested, then they swapped over. Too soon they discovered that although exhausted, sleeping in one-hundred-second intervals was worse than not sleeping at all, so as they took turns wearing through the leather straps they counted out loud. Mark counted in German, in Russian, then backwards in German. He even tried it once in Ronan.

'Ein Hundert,' Mark called out over the roar of the wind and rain. When Steven didn't take up the mantra, Mark nudged his roommate. 'Hey, Steve. It's your turn. Let's try French this time. You took French in college, didn't you?' There was no answer: his friend had fallen into a deep sleep. 'All right, all right, I'll take another turn. You were up all last night, but don't think I'm going past two hundred. I don't know the numbers past two hundred.' He thought for a moment then shook his head. 'Two semesters of German and I can't count past two hundred. Now Ronan, I can count to one hundred million in Ronan and I never had one class. Who would've guessed?'

When Steven failed to answer, Mark continued his own monotonous efforts to break free.

On Ronan number 2,564, he finally felt the straps holding him to the beam break. His wrists were bleeding and his lower back ached from the constant rocking, but he was free. Mark felt a surge of adrenalin rush through him as he stood up straight for the first time in hours. His hands were still tied behind his back, but he figured Steven could untie them, or even bite through those with his teeth if he had to. He looked down at his roommate: Steven had slept through the excitement and still lay slumped forward on the stone floor.

Outside, the rain had slowed. Mark staggered to the window to see the earliest glow of dawn breaking through the thunderclouds.

'Not much time. Steven, wake up,' he said. Steven did not move, and he raised his voice. 'C'mon Steven,' he said urgently, 'we can still make it out of here. Wake up.'

Mark searched hurriedly around the room: a lightning flash illuminated the fireplace and he spotted several jagged bits of masonry. In the darkness he backed up against the stones and felt for a sharp edge, then leaned awkwardly into the fireplace and moved his hands up and down against the stone. He quickly developed a cramp in his shoulder; when he changed position he found a large stone that protruded outward from the masonry at about eye level. Leaning against it with his forehead, he called aloud to the empty room, 'Why does this have to be so goddamned difficult?'

Mark rested his eyes for a moment, waiting for the cramp to subside, then he felt the rock move. Shifting his forehead to the opposite side, he pushed against the stone with his temple. It moved again. Back and forth he pushed it, and with every push he felt it come looser from the fireplace. The cramp in his back gone, he now felt the rough texture of the large granite block rubbing his forehead raw. Back and forth, again and again, he pushed the stone with his forehead until finally it fell to the floor with a resounding crash. 'Shit all over,' he cried and listened for the sound of their captors approaching from the grand staircase.

Hearing nothing, he turned and began furiously rubbing the leather thongs up and down against the sharp edge. This time it worked and within minutes, Mark had severed the straps and freed his hands.

Faint daylight crept into their stone cell. Mark was about to wake Steven when he realised he would need to be able to surprise their captors if someone came to the chamber before Steven was freed and ready to travel. He hefted the large stone block from the floor and was about to push it back into the fireplace wall when he saw several pieces of folded parchment. They had obviously been hidden behind the stone.

'What's this?' He leafed through the pages, but was unable to make out more than a few words of the foreign scrawl Ronan was apparently easier to speak than read. He held them up to catch the light, but even so, the words were still too difficult to decipher. Mark shrugged to himself. It was probably just some long-ago lady's love letters. He still had the matchbook he had taken from Owen's two nights before: with this, they would be able to make a fire if they managed to escape safely to the forest.

He stashed the parchment in his back pocket, replaced the stone in the fireplace and moved quickly to wake Steven.

Lieutenant Bronfio ordered his soldiers to dismount long before they reached the edge of the clearing surrounding Riverend Palace, even though he was conscious that the increased Ronan opposition to the Malakasian occupation meant that soldiers on foot were vulnerable. Through the early morning light he watched as they unstrapped bows and checked that broadswords and rapiers were loose in their scabbards. Several men were already looking at him expectantly, awaiting his command to march on the seemingly abandoned fortress in the distance.

The horses were tethered to trees in a small clearing. Bronfio raised one arm and gave the silent order to proceed. They would attack from the north, burning the ropes securing the palace portcullis so they could enter speedily. Bronfio's orders were clear: they needed only one or two partisans for questioning. The rest were to be killed on sight, or taken as prisoners for public hangings.

Looking towards the rear of his small company, Bronfio saw three men struggling to carry a barrel to the edge of the clearing. Although small, the barrel obviously weighed a great deal. The lieutenant indicated that Brexan should lend some assistance. Reaching the tree line, Bronfio ordered the platoon to hold their position for a moment while he watched the palace for any indication that partisans were indeed inside. The merchant had given him no idea how much resistance to expect, and the young officer disliked the idea of charging into the palace without knowing how numerous or well-armed their enemy were. The barrel was an equaliser; he intended to employ it before beginning the fight. Riskett had brought one along as well.

Across the clearing, in the palace dining hall, Garec stirred. They had finished stacking the crates of stolen weapons, armour and silver in the old cistern only a short time earlier and now his friends lay about the floor, stealing a few moments' sleep before sunrise. They needed to be away before daylight if they were to avoid being detected by the dawn patrols; Garec planned to sneak up into the hills above the river and sleep the morning away.

He wasn't sure what Sallax had planned for their prisoners, but he shuddered at the idea of assassinating them. He wished Gilmour were around to tell them what to do next. Garec believed in their fight to restore freedom to the occupied lands, and he had killed for that cause he'd always known that expelling the Malakasian Army from Rona would require extreme sacrifice. Killing unarmed prisoners was a different matter. He wasn't convinced he would be able to do it.

He sat on the floor and watched dawn begin to illuminate the stained-glass window that flanked the grand staircase at the opposite end of the hall. 'We'd better get moving,' he said to himself and began pulling on his boots.

'I don't think you're going anywhere this morning,' a voice answered softly.

Garec whipped around, reaching for the hunting knife he had placed on the floor before falling asleep. 'Who's that?' he asked, peering into the darkness.

A warm glow burning pipe embers: it lifted the darkness against the wall behind him. Garec detected the faint but familiar odour of Falkan tobacco.