Stella had no, maps to tell her where she was. Day after featureless day passed in the company of her keeper, the eunuch who might at any time become the Destroyer's mouthpiece. He would ride beside her litter - which, he told her, travelled at the rear of the Bhrudwan army, in the company of the Undying One's carriage, a position of the highest honour - or, on occasion, would sit with her. At first she simply turned away from him, afraid she would suddenly find herself talking to the Destroyer, and stared out of the window at the grey hills that seemed to follow them westwards. The eunuch would say nothing, but would regard her with his blurred, poached-egg eyes, remaining silent even when she wept with frustration at her captivity.

He used to hurt me when 1 cried, Stella realised during one interminable afternoon. He used to pinch me on the shoulder. He doesn't do that any more. Why? she asked herself. Perhaps she had been conditioned, and no longer stepped over the invisible line of unacceptable behaviour. But no, that couldn't be it, for why did he let her cry? Perhaps he feels sorry for me. Surely no heart could be so hard as to not feel pity for my plight.

She turned from peering through the curtain of her prison and stared at the face of her keeper.

Close-cropped hair, round, hairless cheeks, a small mouth - except when it was distorted by the Destroyer - and large brown eyes like that of the village dogs she used to play with. Just like a tamed dog, obedient to his master, denied the pleasure of freedom -just like me. He's just like me. She tried to read his face. Was there the merest sign of shared suffering, of sympathy, around those eyes?

'Where are you from?' she asked him, her voice hushed, willing him to answer. 'Where is your home?' Steeling herself, Stella leaned towards him, trying to elicit a response.

His mouth twitched, and he drew in a breath as though about to answer her; but, as if he'd been taken by surprise, he mastered himself and his face went blank, expressionless, unblinking, and looking into his eyes was like staring though the windows of an uninhabited house.

Almost, Stella told herself. Almost.

On the sixth afternoon east of Sivithar the Knights of Fealty came down from their rocky castle to confront the Falthan army. One hundred and nine there were, wearing the full ceremonial armour of an earlier age, each mounted on a black horse, each with a flag-bearer and page in attendance, and they were followed down the slope from their castle by the townspeople, dressed in bright clothes and in festive mood. For a moment worry gripped Leith. He feared the formidable-seeming knights were about to attack his army, but he heard laughter from around and behind him, and looked where the amused generals were pointing.

Some of the knights were having obvious difficulty staying in the saddle, while others clearly struggled to bear the weight of their armour, and when they removed their helmets the reason became clear. They were old men. A closer look showed that some of the horses had been blackened to disguise their greying muzzles, and much of their gear, while well kept, was clearly past its best.

But the laughter died as, with immense dignity, the foremost knight rode up to Leith, dismounted and knelt before him. There was something timeless, something noble in his bearing. He remained kneeling, making no sign that he would stand. Discomfited, Leith looked around, searching for guidance.

'You must'no keep'm kneeled, good sir,' said the knight's page, smiling widely. 'Bid'm rise, m'lord. Bid'm rise!'

'Rise, sir knight,' Leith said, in exactly the same voice he had always used by the Loulea lake when he and the other children played at swords. To his amazement, the man arose, and nodded respectfully to him. A dream come true. To his further amazement, he recognised the roguish face of the page with the broken speech.

'Lessep!' Leith cried, surprised. 'You brought me the Knights of Fealty, after all!'

'Was tellin'ee I knowed the knights!' the man crowed. 'Was unbelieved, was I, but knowed them I did!'

'I believe you now,' Leith replied, smiling at the simple man. In the silence that followed his words, he heard one of the generals beside him mutter: 'But what use will they be?'

The knight stepped forward, a small frown on his face. 'I do not judge a man by what I can see of him,' he said in a crisp, clipped voice. 'I would be interested to cross swords with a man who thought he correctly judged my skill by my appearance.: He directed a blazing stare at the Deruvian general who had spoken, then turned to Leith. 'By your leave, Arrow-bearer?'

The sensible thing to do would have been to refuse. Leith knew that. But events funnelled down a track centuries old in its tradition, and it seemed no one could do anything to prevent what was going to happen. Leith nodded, the Deruvian general - Reaf, his name was - dismounted and drew his sword, and before wisdom had a chance to clear its throat, the two men were bowing to each other. Reaf was a portly man in his fifties, who looked bemused that a careless word could lead him to this pass. A sudden thought passed through Leith's mind like a draught of cold air. Was this to the death? He was about to call a halt, when the Fealty knight stepped forward and flicked his sword in an impossibly quick motion. Reaf's blade spiralled lazily through the air. By the time it landed point-first in the grass at the side of the road, the knight had sheathed his own sword and extended a hand to the bewildered Deruvian. 'You have a good stance,' the man from Fealty said to his beaten opponent, nodding his approval.

Leith took a deep breath, and the Jugom Ark flamed as though sharing in his relief. Drawn by the brightness, the knight turned to Leith and bowed. 'We are the Knights of Fealty,' he said.

'One hundred and forty-four is our number, though in truth some are not hale enough to make the journey down to greet you. Chalcis is my name. I am a direct descendant of Conal Greatheart, the man whose band drove the Bhrudwans out of Faltha nearly a thousand years ago.' He smiled, removed the glove from his left hand and ruffled the hair of his page. 'My rascally son told me you would be coming, but his is only the latest voice of many to predict your arrival. We have known for many years the Bhrudwans would return to Faltha, and the Jugom Ark would be raised against them. We have a Seer amongst us, one who exhorted us to prepare, and for twenty years we have trained to be ready for what lies ahead.' He smiled again, and nodded to the humiliated Deruvian, who had remounted his horse and was sucking his stinging hand. 'What use can we be? We have prepared a banquet for you, and our town is ready to entertain your soldiers with feasting and music. And tomorrow, with your leave, we will march eastwards with you to make war on our enemies. Will you come to Fealty with us?'

The tall castle presented a formidable outline but, like the knights themselves, seemed a little shabby, a little frayed at the edges when looked at more closely. Again Leith wondered whether these knights would be all they promised. Thus he was not prepared for what he found in the castle's Great Hall.

The Knights of Fealty formed an honour guard, flanking the Company and the generals of the Falthan army as they walked up the ever-narrowing road and under the arched entrance to the castle. Once through the entrance they were led across a substantial courtyard, past a well and towards a rectangular structure with a steeply raked roof, a building the equal of anything to be found in Instruere. Here, at least, the stone looked well maintained. A knight - Sir Pylorus, Chalcis named him - flung open the tall double doors and the Company walked in to a room of wonder.

Leith heard a bitten-off exclamation behind him, in a voice that sounded like Hal's. He hadn't seen his brother to speak to for more than a week. Not since that night, If it was him, he's losing control. The old Hal would never have ... His attention was drawn to the hall spread before him, and he had to work not to cry out himself.

Wambakalven. It was the first word that went through his head. The architect who created this hall had captured the essence of an underground cavern: the shimmering play of light and shade, the golden sand spread across the floor coun-terpointing the fluted marble columns that rose to the ceiling like a hundred stalagmites. And the ceiling! A hundred swirling scenes chased each other across the vaulted heaven of the hall, each one directing the eye to a vast centrepiece depicting a rainbow hanging over a field of deepest battle.

In the centre of the hall stood a table laden with food, around which the Knights of Fealty began to seat themselves. The single board looked too small to be able to seat them all, but as he drew closer Leith realised this was a trick of scale: anything human-sized, including the largest table he'd ever seen, would be dwarfed by the cavern-like hall surrounding them.

'Please, be seated,' Sir Chalcis beckoned to his visitors, his voice magnified in a way subtly different to the illusions spun by Phemanderac and others. His words seemed to come from all parts of the hall at once.

'Oh, my!' Phemanderac exclaimed, his eyes wide with wonder. 'Perfect acoustics.' He unlimbered his harp from his shoulder. 'May I?' he asked Sir Chalcis.

'Sir Pylorus is the keeper of the hall. It is his permission to grant or to withhold.'

Further inquiry produced a curt nod from the gatekeeper, and at once the philosopher set his fingers to the strings of his instrument.

Leith took his seat as the music began. Others of his Company stood behind their benches or froze halfway to their seats as the sounds washed over them. Now it was the knights' turn to be amazed. His playing began with a descending run of liquid notes, then a second, then a third. A thrumming bass note had been added without Leith noticing its introduction, winding its way around the tune's insistent call. A second tune began - how many hands did Phemanderac have? Leith wondered - an echo of the first. A pause, a drawing of breath: then Phemanderac drew together the disparate notes into a wash of pure sound that winked and pulsed as though it danced through their very minds. The Jugom Ark blazed brightly in Leith's hand; and myriad carven facets in the hall took the harsh light of legend and transmuted it into a glorious brightness, so that light and music conspired together to envelop all present in a sweet, warm embrace.

Some time later Leith found himself still overcome by the majesty of the place, and as a consequence found it difficult to concentrate on the voice of their host. He stole another glance at the swirl of coloured carvings. Here was the sense of power the Hall of Meeting in Instruere had striven to achieve, and had not quite succeeded. Leith could sense that on this ceiling the builders, carvers and mosaicists had attempted to capture something much truer than mere power. Their work paid homage to a glory, a majesty, an awe beyond the more prosaic Instruian artisans. He turned his head, the better to gaze on the rainbow above him. It appeared to spring from rocky hills on both sides of the battlefield, a multicoloured banner of hope flying above a field of despair. The image was so bittersweet as to be poignant. And there, in the foreground . . .

His heart stopped in his breast, his breath caught in his throat.

There in the foreground, standing atop a pinnacle of rock, watching over the battle, stood a figure holding a blazing brand. No, not a brand. An arrow, clearly an arrow, aflame with the fire of God.

'It is a prophecy,' said a voice. Leith tore his gaze away from the incredible scene and back to his eating companions.

'What?'

'It is a prophecy,' Sir Chalcis repeated patiently. 'The whole hall is a prophecy.'

Kurr, seated to Leith's left, glanced up at the mural overhead, his brow puzzled for a moment, then his eyes widened.

'A prophecy of what?' Leith asked weakly.

'Perhaps you had better ask Sir Amasian. It is his life's project, after all.' The knight leaned to his left. 'Sir Amasian? The Arrow-bearer asks about your work. Would you care to speak to him of your vision?'

Opposite Leith, Phemanderac began to play his harp again, eyes closed as if in prayer, fingers barely touching the strings. A few places to his left an old man slowly stood, then shuffled around the table to where Leith sat. The man's shoulders hunched close to his neck, and he wore a robe of deep crimson, his hair a circle of white around a bald pate. He placed a calloused hand on Leith's shoulder and the youth was forced to hold the Jugom Ark away from the old man, lest he catch fire.

'Put it down,' said the old man in a voice as soft as a child's. 'You can put it down. It won't burn anything in this hall.'

Leith nodded, then placed the Arrow on the table in front of his hosts, who all turned from their various conversations to watch and listen. 'You had a vision, Sir Amasian?' Leith asked courteously, barely able to contain the excitement building within him. Perhaps this man could tell him all he needed to know.

'I stood in this hall twenty summers ago,' said the old man in a thin voice, and his eyes closed as he relived his dream. 'Back then the hall was plain and unadorned, though still a work worthy of he whom it honours, and the twelve twelves - the pillars that hold up the roof - did nothing more than record the names of the knights who have passed on since the days of Conal Greatheart himself. At that time I had the task of lighting the torches before the evening meal. I had come from our little chapel, where I opened my soul in agony to the Most High, seeking his guidance; for I was too old to ride with the knights, and was considering resigning from the Order and going to live with my sister in Sivithar. As I stepped forward into Conal's Hall, the burning taper in my hand blazed forth like a thousand suns, too bright to look upon, too holy to endure. I thought for a moment the hall had caught fire, but in an instant I knew it was not so, for the light formed into a vision, a storm-lashed field of battle, of torment, where two mighty armies fought for supremacy. I watched men fall beneath their foes, men unhorsed and crawling on the ground to escape death, and men fighting courageously against insurmountable odds. Their cries came to me as though from a great distance, but even so I could barely contain my fear at the dreadful slaughter taking place before me. I then saw a grey-cloaked figure, a man with one hand, standing on a hill above one of the armies.

Opposite him I saw another figure, a boy wearing a white robe, atop a hill rising above the other army. The one-handed man raised his hand, and a vast fist rose up from behind the hills, as though to smash the boy's army. The man opened his fingers, and the fist opened into a hand. But the boy raised his hand, and in it was an arrow, and it burned bright beyond knowing, driving the fist away. Then a rainbow spread across the dark clouds of war, and to my troubled heart it was like a promise. The boy with the arrow cried out in triumph and the arrow flamed brightly, blurring my sight and bringing my vision to an end.'

The old man took a deep breath, opened his eyes and stepped forward so he could look on Leith's stunned face. 'I knew this vision for prophecy. I have the gift: I am on occasion touched with the Sight, and I see true. My lord, I saw the Destroyer and his armies. I saw the army of Faltha. And at its head, with the Jugom Ark as a talisman of victory, I saw . . . you.'

He took a step back, and spoke in a loud voice. 'I beheld the one who will defeat the Destroyer, and he is here in my hall today, seated in the sanctuary I created over many years for his coming. Aah, the honour! The glory! That I should have seen the Right Hand of the Most High! That I should have fore-told his coming! Twenty years' labour in this hall is not sufficient to pay the debt I owe the Most High.' And he bowed deeply to Leith, until his bald crown almost reached the floor; and shouts of praise rang out around him.

Lying awake that night in another strange bed - in a splendid room, with servants attending, but a strange bed for all that - Leith found himself unable to shake off the darkness that gripped his heart. Surely news such as that delivered by Sir Amasian ought to have eased his own doubts, since it had done so for everyone else. Yet he felt unable to deal with the dread enveloping him. Was it a fear of death? No - that particular fear he had faced on many occasions throughout his long journeys. Compared to what he felt now, the fear of death was a clean thing, something no one could hold him responsible for. Ah, was that it? Was this the weight of responsibility? The Haufuth had spoken to him of this during their march eastwards from Instruere. But surely even that would feel lighter, somehow. He might make a wrong decision, and people might die. He knew that; knew people would die even if he made every decision correctly. Anyway, who was to judge?

Responsibility, that was partly it. But something more burned away at the pit of his stomach, stealing sleep, stealing peace. It settled deeply into him tonight, after being forced to stand and acknowledge the praise offered him by the Knights of Fealty following the words of their Seer. He felt like an impostor. It wasn't supposed to be him on that hilltop facing the Destroyer. He'd done something wrong, made some wrong choice, and he was disqualified from leading the army. He' should stand aside and let someone else lead, or disaster would befall the great Army of Faltha . . . the Destroyer's giant fist would fall on them, crushing them under its might. . . down the fist comes, slowly falling, but still too quickly for his friends to escape death . . . Kurr falls beneath it, still shouting advice to Leith as he dies ... his father and his mother disappear beneath its shadow, their mouths open in a mute cry of terror.

. . Hal his brother waits patiently for the blow to fall, his face full of love and patience . . .

Leith cries out but the fist falls, tearing his heart out...

The Destroyer speaks to him. 'I couldn't have done it without you,' he says in a mocking voice ... he leans over and places his hand on Leith's shoulder; the touch is ice-cold ... 'It was what you said, it was what you said!' and he laughs, a cruel sound that sets rocks to falling. . . and again the victor speaks: 'Now you will be my Right Hand!' The fist opens out, rears up, hovers over Leith for a moment, then picks him up . . . places him on the Destroyer's hill. .. beside the cruel Harrower of Faltha . . . Leith can't breathe, there's a weight on his chest, crushing him like his army had been crushed ... he can't breathe, can't breathe ...

O Most High, Leith cried as he came awake with a start, heart hammering, sweat soaking into his bedsheets, what have 1 done?

Clad only in his nightshirt, Leith pushed open the door of his room and took a torch from the brazier set beside the knight assigned to watch his room. The man turned at the sound, then nodded, took up his sword and made to follow him. Though Leith gestured for him to remain behind, the knight padded down the dimly-lit corridor in his wake.

He remembered the way. Within minutes he found himself easing open the door to the Hall of Conal Greatheart, in which a few torches still burned. He'd left the Jugom Ark behind: after thinking about it for a moment, he decided his forgetfulness was deliberate. It could remain on the stone sill of his bedroom window. Perhaps the prophecy on the ceiling of the hall would look different under the illumination of mere torchlight.

There it was, up in the shadowed ceiling. The rainbow, picked out in tessellations that seemed to blend one colour into another, looked in the half-light more like a portent of doom than a herald of victory. The armies fought in the twilight, it seemed, and their deaths went unnoticed. On the twin hills, left and right, stood the two figures opposing each other. Or was it just one figure cunningly reflected, as in a mirror?

He searched the image for the faces of his friends, his parents, his brother, but they were not there. Just a nightmare, then. As he turned to leave, his eye was caught by a detail from one of the other images. He followed it outward to the edge of the ceiling, then found another image and followed it back in to the centre. Twelve paths, twelve people led to this great image of victory.

'I did tell you.'

How many of them? How many have you called?

'You're not the first. But you are the only one to have made it this far.' So I'm supposed to be here?

If the voice could have sighed, it would have. 'Why is it people think the most important question is where they are? As though where you live is more important than how you live?' But surely if I'm supposed to be somewhere else, doing some-thing else, I should know about it?

'Leith, there are a hundred ways this task could be achieved. There are a thousand people who could have achieved it. The Seer of Fealty was shown this truth, and on the ceiling of this hall he has tried to represent it by depicting a multitude of paths to the same place. Beware, Leith. This image proved too powerful for his mind. He has not rendered it exactly as it was shown to him. Do not put too much store in it.'

Then why show me at all?

'You overestimate my power in the world of men. I showed Amasian the vision, but it was his to interpret. All I can do is point the way. I cannot compel anyone to follow. However reluctantly, you have followed where no one else would walk, and so now it has come down to you. Already you have made choices that made your path a harder one to walk, and you will no doubt make it harder still for yourself in the days to come.'

What have I done wrong?

'You find it hard to trust. You have drawn away from the people who could offer you the most help. Perhaps there is no other way for one such as you.' Leith was sure he could hear tenderness in the voice, tenderness mixed in with the weariness of the ages, as though it was the old, old earth itself who spoke to him.

Who are you? Tell me who you are!

'One day you will learn my name.'

Tell me, please tell me! he cried. But the voice had gone silent. He glanced towards the Arrow, as though through some act of will he could bring the voice back - and realised he'd left it back in his room.

When the rest of the Company found him next morning, he was still there in the hall, sitting alone at the great table with a dozing knight standing at his side; and he was laughing softly to himself.

One hundred and twelve knights marched forth from Fealty, accompanied by their pages and heralds, to join the massed Falthan army down on the plain below. As they approached, their heralds blew a great blast on their trumpets, and the army cheered as the morning sun shone on their armour. The cheering grew louder as the knights divided into two lines, drew their bright swords and held them aloft, then brought them together above the path between the two lines. Under this guard of honour came the Company and their generals, led by the Arrow-bearer. Those close enough to see his face noticed a strange smile playing on his lips.

That afternoon the weather turned to the south. A warm wind blew from the desert hidden behind the Veridian Borders, and soon had the army sweating in their cloaks, their horses lathered, the foot-soldiers struggling to keep up. Small clouds appeared above the slopes to their right, but as the afternoon drew on they grew, fed by the reservoir of cool air on the plains, made unstable by the warm air from the desert. Up, up they rose, spreading out like anvils in a celestial smithy, and lightning began flashing from their black bases.

The weather broke the next day. One of the huge storms, wafted north from the Veridian Borders on the desert wind, slowly moved abreast of the marching army. Though the marchers were spread over nearly two leagues, from the Company and the Jugom Ark at the front to the many provision-laden wagons at the rear, the cloud covered them all. Lightning cracked and boomed all around them, then the rain began and within a few minutes came down in torrents, as though trying to crush Leith's army into the muddy road. He could do nothing but call a halt for the day, though there were hours of daylight left. To march on in the storm-darkness risked injury. It seemed to take an age to pass the message down the ranks, though some of the more experienced soldiers had already set up camp, with tents pitched and horses tethered in anticipation of the order.

The storm passed overhead at a snail's pace. At times the rain relented, as though the great cloud was exhausted; but then the hail would return with renewed vigour, battering the tents and the shields of anyone unfortunate enough to be left in the open. The losian army bore the hail with stoic silence, having but few tents among them, and unwilling -or uninvited - to share the tents of their First Men allies.

At the height of the storm a horse came galloping down the road in a tunnel of spray, drawing to a halt in front of the generals' tent. A rider leaped from its back and flung open the tent flap. It was one of the heralds sent out every morning to announce the coming of the Falthan army and to recruit any willing fighters. 'There is a force of arms less than a league east of here, holding the road against us,' he said. 'Many thousands strong. Like us, they wait out the storm, but will march west when the rain stops.'

'Their devices, man!' one of the Straux leaders roared. 'What were their devices?'

'My lord,' he stammered, 'they display a banner of green, slashed left to right with blue and overlaid with a brown tree.' At this, several of the generals sighed their relief, and the man from Straux clapped his hands together.

'You're from Deruys, are you not? Were you not taught to recognise the banner of the northern plain? It is the Army of Deuverre come to join us!'

The good news spread throughout the army, making up, to a degree, for the soaking everyone received. Before nightfall the storm drifted away to worry someone else, rattling and booming in the northern distance. The Deuverrans joined their numbers to what was already the largest army ever assembled in the history of Faltha - at least, according to the old man Jethart whom Leith often saw in the company of his father.

Leith was listening to a detailed recitation of the Falthan army's remaining stores when the summons came. The Falthan army suffered a severe shortage of axles, apparently; a consequence of rutted ground. He believed it important to keep abreast of such things, even though someone else always seemed to have these matters under control. Perhaps if he had been listening to something of greater interest he would have turned the messenger with the summons away. But he recognised his mother's handwriting on the parchment, and knew there were issues more important than axles he needed to deal with. Bidding the clerk a good day, he left with the young woman who delivered the summons and made his way across a muddy half-mile of trampled fields. There, some distance apart from the armies, stood a plain white pavilion topped with his banner.

Ambush. The word sprang into his mind when he opened the tent flap and walked into the pavilion. In the foreground stood a long table, from which servants cleared the remains of a substantial meal. A meal to which he hadn't been invited, and during which he was no doubt discussed. The scrape and clatter of wooden platters served to mask the whispering of his family and friends, his Company, who sat on two rows of benches set up behind the empty board. As Leith approached them their heads drew apart, they fell silent and their eyes settled on him like accusations.

Leith needed no telling what this was about. Mahnum and Indrett sat in the centre of the front bench. His mother had been crying, her red, blotchy face all the evidence he needed. As Farr rose from his bench, Leith began to gather his anger.

Unbidden, an image appeared in his mind. A massive shape, stretching right across his mind's eye. It came from his dream in Foilzie's basement, when the Most High had fallen upon the Company with Fire.

'I told you I'd remind you of this.'

I haven't forgotten, Leith responded. Quiet, even serene, the feelings associated with that dream smothered his anger, leaving him calm. He'd received a vision of sorts in his dream, in which he'd seen a vast cube which stood for the love others had for him. As he beheld this love, somehow rendered in physical form, a voice had spoken: 'Nothing you do will exhaust the love your family and your friends have for you.'

I still remember.

'Your friends and your family will speak out of love, but their words will offend you. They do not understand the struggles you go through in order to hold the Jugom Ark.' J don't understand my struggles either. Could I talk with you about them?

'Of course, but not now. Others want to talk with you about much the same thing. ' As always, this exchange apparently occupied no time at all. Farr got to his feet, cleared his throat and welcomed Leith to the meeting. 'We're here to talk about your role in the coming war,' he said. 'I've called the Company together because we're concerned about your fitness to lead us.'

'A little blunt, but Farr has the heart of it,' his father said. 'Leith, we can go no further without reassurance you act in our best interest. We have spoken with the losian leaders, specifically Jethart, and he has explained to me how those not of the Fire are not harmed by the touch of the Jugom Ark. That is worrying information, Leith.'

Leith made to answer, but Kurr beat him to it, 'So it is, boy. What use is a weapon if it can't be used against our enemies? You're playing with the future of Faltha. How could you be so foolish?'

'People lost their lives on the journey to find that arrow,' said a soft voice from his right.

Illyon, the Escaignian woman.

The Haufuth made to speak, but Leith forestalled him. 'You are right,' he said quietly.

This had to be done with care; he walked a fine line. He would not, could not allow himself to be submerged by the voice of the Jugom Ark. Above all, he wanted to avoid Hal's fate. His adopted brother's mystical union with the Most High, whether real or imagined, obliterated whatever personality he might once have had. What Leith said would need to leave him some freedom, while still keeping the confidence of the Company.

'You are right, all of you,' he repeated. 'I don't really know what to do with the Arrow, and I should have found out before now. Phemanderac spoke to me over a week ago, but I haven't seen him since. I note he's not here today. Was he asked?'

Farr frowned. 'What does that matter? Where I come from much is expected of young men.

For you to have come this far without fulfilling your duty is just cowardly. How could you value so lightly the sacrifices of those who died to get you this far?'

'Phemanderac did not want to attend today's meeting,' Indrett said. 'Leith, have you said anything to upset him?'

The echo in her voice spoke of Hal. His brother was nowhere to be seen. No matter what they say, they will not exhaust my love for them. Repeating this paraphrase of his vision gave Leith the strength to keep his frustration in check.

'Mother, I don't know what's wrong with Phemanderac. I need his wisdom, but whenever I send for him he responds with some excuse. He's busy, or he's sick, or he's got some task he can't get free from.'

'Then you must find someone else. None of us know anything about the Arrow. Find Phemanderac and make him talk to you. If he won't talk to you, try Jethart or Maendraga. Or Hal. But please, son, make sure you know everything you can know about the Jugom Ark before we encounter the Bhrudwans.'

The Haufuth shifted his bulk on the bench. 'You know, Leith, if I were you I'd be worried about the Destroyer. We're expecting him to accompany his army westwards. In your hand you hold the only weapon known to be effective against him. Aren't you afraid this whole journey is leading towards a confrontation between you and the Destroyer?'