Stella tried to scream, but there was no breath in her lungs. She tried to struggle, but could not move. She was inside the flame, absorbing and being absorbed by it, reduced to nothing more than an ember flickering in a cold grate, barely alive. She was beyond help, beyond redemption, in a place where mere pain would have been a welcome relief. She moved neither forward nor back, neither up nor down, could not tell how long she'd been inside the flame nor when the agony would end, if ever. She begged the flame to snuff her out, but it paid her no attention, its cold blue heart bent on some other matter.

Then, horribly, the blue flame began to scream in rage at an old memory rekindled. Stella knew she was about to be consumed, and gave herself up. Paradoxically, this saved her. She drifted upwards like a nearly-spent spark. Had she retained her will to live, the flame would have burned it and her with it. Below her the red mouth roared, enlarging as though intending to swallow the world, but even in her extremity Stella could tell the bite was too large for it.

There came an enormous detonation, a coming together of light and dark, of oil and water, a conflagration so large it threatened to destroy everything. Up, up the blast came, but it was weak by the time it reached her, and merely drove consciousness from her like a dove from a lake of fire. Stella sighed blissfully as the darkness claimed her.

She awoke in the dark. Her senses returned to her in a flood, sharpened somehow by the flame. Beneath her, rough flagstones radiated an intense cold, and the air was damp to the taste. She could hear the sound of someone breathing raggedly.

Disoriented, Stella at first thought she had been returned to The Pinion. A dreadful day and night she had spent there, chained to the inner door of an empty cell, exposed to smells, sights and sounds she told herself could not possibly be real. Certainly this must be a dungeon of some sort - but, she realised in surprise, she was not fettered. Somewhere in the darkness the breathing steadied and deepened. A witless dread crept over her.

Are - are you there? Is anyone there?' Her voice came out no louder than a whisper, but it was enough. A flame burst into life, small but steady. Behind the flame a figure came into view.

Then, as the flame grew and blue light flooded the room, Stella saw him.

He was tall, broad of shoulder and clad in grey raiment so dark it stole the light from around him. His eyes burned faintly red. A silver crown rested upon his brow. And his face - his face was old and haggard, scarred and lined, a wasteland where no rain had fallen for centuries, a face from beyond the grave. Then, as she watched, his face began to heal. Scars faded, lines smoothed away, until the man wore the visage of a king. The Destroyer.

He looked on her and knew her. This was the northern girl, the one Deorc was keeping for him, the one with the echo of the bright flame set within her. The bright, bright flame . . . the memory of his recent defeat tightened his shoulders and sent a spasm across his noble face.

But was it truly a defeat? He had exchanged a few useless soldiers, and perhaps a skilled but replaceable servant, for the knowledge he had been seeking these past years. Who and where was the Right Hand? The question had been nagging at him ever since he squeezed out the dying words of the Dhaurian spy twenty years ago. And now that question was answered, and more, much more. The flaw in his plans was finally laid bare, and early enough that it could be mended. His mistake was that he had neglected to ask the obvious question: what would the Right Hand be holding? Now he knew the answer. The cursed Arrow.

The Undying Man had made it a policy not to dwell on that day, two thousand years ago, when he had confronted the Most High in the Square of the Fountain; but now he forced himself to relive the moment the Flaming Arrow flashed past his eyes and sliced through his wrist, when he felt the agony and the shock, and looked up to see the silhouette of his nemesis standing over him. However, nothing the Most High might have done to him could rob him of the exultation that coursed through his body in that moment. The draught he had drunk fizzed through his veins as though boiling his blood. He remembered it clearly, he felt it still; a life beyond anything mortals knew, burning, burning, burning. The water of the Fountain of Eternal Life. Worth the price of a hand. But the Jugom Ark represented the anger of the Most High and the threat he still posed to the Undying Man's grand designs. More than that, it symbolised his favouritism for the puerile First Men. And, as he had just discovered, it was more than a mere symbol. It contained a potency of its own.

The Jugom Ark, and the Right Hand that bore it, would have to be faced at some time; but not now, not yet.

Now to the matter of this northern girl, cowering on her knees in obvious dread of him. Two thousand years was a long time to live, but there were many new things to learn. He had not known the blue fire could be used to transport people from one place to another. He had not even considered the possibility. Of course, it might have been the backwash of the power generated by the clash of magic, and might not be repeatable. It would require further investigation. He had plenty of time.

Of more importance was the connection between this girl and the Right Hand. She had received the Fire from the Most High, of that there was no doubt; and this was a worrying development, for he had been certain the Most High would never again gift the Fuirfad to descendants of the First Men. She was an enigma. He could sense no talent, none of the soul-stretching the use of the Fuirfad engendered. How well he remembered it! She was either woefully weak or masked her power with a skill surpassing his own highly developed spiritual senses. There were ways to find out, of course, some of which would do relatively little damage to her. He might need her at least partially intact - though bound to him, of course - if the ideas seeding themselves in his mind were to bear fruit. That she was unaware of the power set within her, he did not consider for a moment.

'So, Stella,' he said in a surprisingly gentle voice, lifting her name from the surface of her shallow mind. 'You have come to me. There are things I would know about you - and your friends.'

As the questions began Stella bravely tried to resist, but the voice that until now she had only heard from out of the blue fire was dreadfully, infinitely more powerful in person, and her efforts were futile. Though the words were mild, they washed her away like a stick before a storm, and in a horror of self-loathing her mouth opened and she told him everything he asked, everything, everything.

CHAPTER 6.

REPOSITIONING.

'WE HAVE NO TIME to waste! We must act this very day!' Perdu said.

It was just before noon on the day of the Battle of Struere Gate - as it was already being called - and the Company seemed inclined to take his words, and the similar urgings of others, to heart. The consensus of opinion was that with the victory their position had actually worsened slightly. Deorc and his blue fire had been driven away, that was true, but no one could say what the limit of his power might be, or how quickly he could recover. And while the main force of the Instruian Guard was gifted to them by the clash of fires, there might be hundreds more not currently on duty, or still hidden in The Pinion, waiting to be unleashed on them all.

Less important, but more immediate, was the problem of the crowd. Few wanted to leave, most preferring the perceived safety of numbers and closeness to the Jugom Ark, but they had little food. They could not be sent home, for who would then guard the captive soldiers?

Something had to be done, and quickly.

Not much time remained. Hours, not days. While Leith's employment of the Jugom Ark in opposition to the Destroyer's blue fire may have rescued them from the present danger, it had alerted the Ancient Enemy to its discovery after two thousand years. The element of surprise the Company counted on was lost. There was nothing else he could have done, Leith explained desperately to the Company when they asked him what had happened. He had felt compelled to try to free Stella, he told them. Was he supposed just to look on as she stood there in chains, at the mercy of the Destroyer? Some were sympathetic with his actions, but Phemanderac cautioned him on the danger of surrendering to his emotions, a view seconded by Kurr.

'You're going to have to retain a level head, boy,' the old farmer said gruffly. As much as I love the girl, it would have been better to have kept the Arrow hidden. As it is, you did not save her, and our position is much more perilous than it was.'

Leith's feelings for Stella still ran deep; seeing her for those few moments made him realise she meant more to him than arrows or armies. He had listened to his fair share of fairy tales as a child, where the protagonists fell in love and risked all for each other. The tales made a virtue of such behaviour, but Leith knew any suggestion he was considering setting aside the future of Faltha in order to search for Stella would not be well received. So he said nothing to those who offered criticism of his actions. There were more important things to decide than the rights or wrongs of what he had done, at least that's the way they would see it; especially when nothing could be done to mend it. He kept quiet because, fairy tales aside, he knew his friends were right.

Geinor and the Escaignian woman stood respectfully at the entrance to the pavilion as the Company talked together.

Eventually, taking advantage of a quiet moment, the woman came over to the table. 'There are people waiting to speak to us,' she informed them. 'They say they have been chosen by the Jugom Ark. Some of them are very angry.'

'What?' Leith asked, confused. 'What people? Why are they angry? How were they chosen?'

Kurr placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. 'Why don't we go and find out?'

'There are so many others we need to talk to,' Leith replied flatly. 'Te Tuahangata for one; Hal for another. Can't these people wait? Most likely they just want another look at the Arrow.'

'We refuse help at our peril.' The old farmer tightened his grip on the boy's shoulder.

'Very well,' Leith conceded, then smiled ruefully. 'I'm not used to this! I naturally feel as though I should do what I'm told; but I'm supposed to be the leader, so I try to resist the feeling. But then I become harsh. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to this.'

'They await us outside the pavilion,' Geinor reported. 'There are many people there; some, I think, were identified by the Arrow of Fire yesterday when you challenged the crowd about the losian. Remember?'

The members of the Company made their way out into the late-morning sunshine. Several groups waited for them, sitting and talking quietly in what had been, until yesterday, a busy city street. As the Company approached them all chatter ceased.

Leith scanned the faces, and noticed one man sitting aside from the others. 'You!' he cried, and ran forward to him happily. It was the Pei-ratin pilot, who nodded darkly at the greeting.

Leith stepped back, puzzled.

'I do not want to become involved in this,' the navigator told him, his black eyebrows bristling in anger. 'I returned to the city yesterday to buy supplies for our return voyage, and came upon a crowd inside the gate. Your fiery arrow picked me out. What am I supposed to do? My people prepare to return to Astraea, and they cannot leave without their navigator. What help can I be? Why should I do anything for the First Men?'

Still feeling his way, Leith called some of the others over. Maendraga, Phemanderac, Kurr, Geinor, Graig, Indrett and the Haufuth came in answer. Others of the Company moved amongst the remaining groups. After Maendraga briefly explained to everyone who the dark-skinned man was, and how he knew him, Leith sat down opposite the Pei-ratin pilot.

'Would your people consider a longer route to Astraea?' Phemanderac asked the navigator. 'If Nemohaim and Tabul signed an agreement with the Council of Faltha to cede to the Pei-ra all of ancestral Astraea, would your kin set aside their plans for a season and come to our aid?'

'No - and yes. Most would not, but some might. They owe you a debt, after all, for revealing that the ancient places lie unoccupied.' He sighed. 'It seems that even though we sought refuge in places untouched by the First Men, we are continually drawn into their affairs. Many of our people will resist this, no matter how many pieces of paper are signed.

'I am a navigator, however, and my people look to me to see the currents that otherwise might drive us on to the reefs. Many of us may be swept up into your wars by the currents to come.

For myself, I want nothing more than to journey home to Astraea, to finally bury my grandsire's name and live out my life. But I listened when you and the magician Maendraga spoke in the days and nights you guested on my canoe. You are right: whatever land losian dwell in becomes an object of desire for the First Men. I fear that our hold on Astraea will be short, and again end in blood.'

He sighed, then sat on his haunches and looked up into the philosopher's face. 'Bring me a map,' he said.

'A map? Of what?' Leith had never taken much notice of maps; the lines and names confused him. Phemanderac seemed equally puzzled at the request.

'Of southern Faltha,' Graig said from behind Leith's shoulder. 'Surely Instruere must have a supply of maps.'

'They will undoubtedly be in the hands of the rulers,' Phemanderac commented. 'Gone are the days when any of us could visit the Hall of Lore to search the City archives. More is the pity; for there are precious books in the library I wish to read more closely.'

'Some parchment, then?' the curly-haired man asked. 'I will try to sketch out something.'

Phemanderac was able to supply parchment, pen and ink, and seemed now to understand what the Aslaman intended. With a few bold strokes the navigator sketched out the coast south and west from the mouth of the Aleinus down to Nemohaim, then east past Tabul, Vertensia and Sarista, where his knowledge ended. Rivers he drew, and mountains; under his hand the paper came alive, and for the first time Leith could see the lie of the land represented by the map.

There on the paper was Deruys, clearly marked; inland must be the Mist, and that heavy line, like a wound on the parchment, had to be the Valley of a Thousand Fires. If he looked closely he could almost see the Company climbing out of the valley and crossing the northern borders of Astraea, which occupied a large space in the centre of the map.

From his pocket the navigator drew a paddle-shaped object, slightly smaller than a hand's-breadth, with teeth at one end. 'This is a kai-nan, a stick we use for eating,' he explained to the small group gathered around him. He placed the object on the map, and positioned it over where he had drawn Astraea; the wider, toothed end he set to the north-east, overlapping the Valley of a Thousand Fires, the narrow handle to the south-west, just touching the sea. Then he took the pen, dipped it in the ink and drew a line around the kai-nan, enclosing it. When he took his eating-stick away, the outline remained.

'This is the land we desire,' he said in a voice of utter conviction. Almost, Leith imagined, he heard the Wordweave in it. 'From the fires in the north to Cachoeira on the coast, from the Almucantaran Mountains in the east to the Escarpment in the west; this we claim as ours for all time. None from Tabul will cross the Lifeblood without our permission. None from Nemohaim will enter the Vale of Neume unless we permit it. This land shall be the price for our participation in the war against your enemies. For this price you will receive a thousand of the Pei-ra, who will fight for you unto death. Do you agree?'

Leith turned aside for a time, and gathered the rest of the Company around him. When he returned to where the Pei-ratin navigator waited patiently, he said: 'This offer is what I had hoped for, and to me it sounds good, whether you fight with us or no. For my part, and in ignorance of claims to the land, I see no argument; but there may be others, from Tabul or Nemohaim perhaps, or from your own people, who might dispute the boundary as you have drawn it. Let this document be held by the interim Council of Faltha for one year. Copies should be sent to the kingdoms of Nemohaim and Tabul, as well as to the Sanusi and to the islands of the Aslamen. If in twelve months from today all objections can be satisfied, the boundary will be confirmed.

You shall then have a seat on the Council of Faltha, if that is your wish.'

'Then let us seal the agreement with a meal,' said the navigator. 'The Aslamen will come within the City walls and eat with the First Men. Of course,' he added wryly, 'it is only a beginning. I have no doubt many of my kin will object; but that does not make this agreement worthless. We are not a kingdom whose people must obey the word of one, wise or otherwise.

Each one will do what seems right to them. So do not be surprised if not all of my people wish to eat with you. Some, however, will come.'

Leith smiled, and waved farewell as the navigator walked proudly through the remains of the Struere Gate.

That afternoon the Company spoke to others who had been fire-touched by the Arrow, marked out as losian and as True Falthans. The Jugom Ark was less discriminating than the Company might have wished. One man turned out to be a rogue who once served the Knights of Fealty, but more recently had abandoned that high calling to become part of a roving band of thieves that plagued camel trains out of Ghadir Massab. This last item brought a scowl from Kurr, who remembered the Pass of Adrar. The tousle-haired rogue seemed reluctant to answer questions directed at uncovering why he had left the Knights of Fealty, but did tell them he was born a Wodrani, a reclusive people living in the folded hills north of Favony, far to the east of Instruere. Of the Company only Modahl knew of the Wodrani, and even he had not travelled to their hidden land.

'There are other'n like me,' the man slurred, his soft accent difficult to follow. 'We all leave'n the birth-home and find'n livin' in the Falthan lands. I took up'n with the Fealty ones. If'n you'm want'n soldiery, can't go past'n the Fealty ones.' It turned out the ill-favoured man, who went by the name of Lessep, thought he could win the aid of the Knights of Fealty to the Company's cause. 'Talk'n a lot of the Arrow, they did,' he said.

'Had'n a carvin' of it in the Meetin' hall. Picture of it on the ceilin'. Lots of pictures.' Kurr remained dubious, but knew enough not to mistrust the Arrow.

Lessep was not the only Wodrani touched by the Fire. A woman, so old her face appeared made from leather left too long in the sun, came from an ancient lineage, she told the Company. Or, at least, her sons told them, for she did not speak the common tongue. 'We will return to the Old Land,' they said. 'There are many people who look to fight in wars for money.'

'Mercenaries!' the Captain of the Guard spat in professional disgust. 'We can't rely on such as they! All I see today are the untrained and the weak, people who will be a liability on the field of battle. This is not a task for ordinary men. We need warriors, mighty men, each of whom would be worth fifty, a hundred of these!' He spread his arms wide to indicate the rabble gathered in front of the pavilion, and the crowd still waiting between the pavilion and the Gate.

'So you think this task" is beyond anyone but heroes?' Indrett asked him pointedly. 'You think the Most High made a mistake entrusting the Arrow to people like us?'

'You can carry the Arrow, but don't bother carrying a sword,' he replied in the crisp voice of a professional soldier. 'Your task is complete. It is time for others to take on the burden.

Strength, not stealth, will be our protection.'

Indrett frowned, but said nothing.

The other losian gathered by the Arrow came from various little-known parts of Faltha. None seemed very promising, certainly not the kind of people of whom the former Captain of the Instruian Guard might approve. There was a young family from a village somewhere south of Redana'a, from the harsh semi-arid steppes on the margins of Khersos, the Deep Desert. They were descended from the Sanusi of Ghadir Massab - a tale made less unlikely by their likeness to the slavers Kurr had encountered only a few weeks ago - but they had not ventured south into the desert for generations. Two or three men hailed from the deep-sided valleys of the Remparer Mountains which divided Deuverre and Asgowan from Treika to the north and west, and belonged to related clans that traced their ancestry back thousands of years. A family from Instruere itself, bemused as to why they might have been selected, protested that they were pure First Men. Eventually, however, it turned out there might have been a connection with a northern tribe that lived somewhere near Whitefang Pass, the notorious northern passage of the Remparer Mountains.

Late in the afternoon Kurr called them all together in the name of the Arrow-bearer, whose weariness had finally caught up with him. 'The young man deserves a rest,' the old farmer explained. 'This afternoon I will speak in his place.' Not everyone was happy at the news: it seemed the Arrow inspired more loyalty than those entrusted with its care. Kurr had little patience with them, and began to speak before they could mount any serious objection.

'Now is the time of sending,' he told them. 'If we are to gather any kind of army, we must send you back to your homelands in haste. Our best guess is that the army will depart Instruere in three months' time, and set forth for the Gap, a further three months' journey. The earliest we can hope to engage the Destroyer, therefore, is in late spring. This means we must march through winter. Some of you, therefore, will be sent ahead to prepare for our passage, as our army will require food and perhaps shelter as we journey to the east. We will call upon people from the lands of Favony, Redana'a, Piskasia and Sna Vaztha to aid us in this task, as well as those of you gathered here who come from the eastern lands.

'Others of you we send home to raise a fighting force. From our Company Te Tuahangata of Hinepukohurangi, Prince Wiusago of Deruys, Geinor of Nemohaim, Modahl of Sna Vaztha and Perdu of the Fenni will journey home to their respective lands, there to entreat their sovereigns for aid. In the event that this takes longer than three months, we request that they make their way to the Gap with all possible speed, ready to reinforce us.

'Those of us who remain have our own appointed tasks to complete. We are loath to leave Instruere in the hands of traitors: there is no point in defeating the armies of Bhrudwo only to find the City stoutly held against us on our return, or razed to the ground. We give ourselves three months to wrest control of Instruere from the remnants of the Instruian Guard. On the last day of September we will leave the City, whether it is under our control or not.'

The named members of the Company came forward, bowed once to Kurr and then left. Just like that, Kurr thought, without ceremony. Their loss was hard to bear. All had shown themselves faithful and true, good friends and advisers. Perdu was a particularly heavy loss to the Company: though Kurr had spoken little to him, he admired the Fenni man's directness and humility. He had been a balance between himself and Farr, the two mercurial antagonists, and would be missed even in the absence of the latter.

Perdu would travel north from Instruere, accompanied for the first part of his journey by Modahl, the two Wodranian families and by three men from the Remparer Mountains. A few days north of the City the others would depart for the north and the east, leaving the adopted Fenni to journey on his own to the west. Even with Wisent, who, surprisingly, had thrived in the stables they found for him, the journey would take him many weeks. Modahl's journey to Faltha's far east would take longer still.

Another party would leave Instruere by the ruined Struere Gate, thence to the Docks and the canoe of the Aslamen. Wiusago and Te Tuahangata, the latter having overcome his initial reluctance to the Mist's involvement, would be set ashore at Brunhaven, and Geinor and his son, who perhaps had the most difficult task of all, were to continue on to Bewray. The Aslamen would then return to their islands. Various others, mostly of the losian, were also to leave from the Struere Gate. They would make their way to their southern and eastern homes, and see what assistance they could raise in support of events far away.

For three glorious days the number of the Company had been full, Kurr realised; always excepting Stella. Now they were being sent all over Faltha, and would be together again - if at all - only when they came face to face with their enemy.

Deorc strode impatiently down the noisy corridor leading to the Iron Door. The hands of a dozen or more supplicants reached out towards him as he passed; angrily, he slapped them away with a fraction of the power still burning redly within him. The great door was slowly raised in anticipation of his return, too slowly for his mood. With an imperious gesture he sent the Iron Door crashing up into its housing. He stormed into the Outer Chamber amidst falling gears and broken machinery, the ruined craftsmanship of an earlier, greater age.

There the Council of Faltha waited for him, the Arkhoi of Haurn and Deruys at their head, themselves newly returned from the site of his failure, ready to question him on the day's disaster. Deorc would have none of it. With a snarl he spread his arms wide, and the Councillors were struck dumb. It took only a crook of his finger to drag a gurgling Furoman into the Chamber, the secretary struggling as though he had a rope around his neck.

'Set the blue fire,' he commanded his servant. Furoman tried to obey, even though his face was turning blue, invisible fingers at his throat. He managed to lay the bowl on a table, but collapsed halfway through pouring the oil.

'You,' Deorc hissed, pointing at the Arkhos of Favony. 'Set the fire.'

Favony had never done it before, though he had watched with some distaste as the new Head of the Council had in his view behaved like a common conjuror, summoning a voice from the flames in an unnecessary display of intimidation. Setting the fire was servants' work, but he knew better than to argue with the man. The Arkhos of Favony was about to learn that the conjuror wielded real power.

With shaking hands he picked up the oil pitcher, which now lay on its side on the floor, slowly leaking sticky fluid on to the marble. As soon as he began to pour, a strange, terrible power sucked at him. To the frantic man it felt as though his strength, his soul, was being poured into the bowl along with the oil. He could not scream, he could not move, he could not halt the dreadful pouring. He could do nothing but die.

To the others it seemed as though the Arkhos of Favony slowly dissolved in front of their eyes, first his flesh, then his bones. The Council cried out as one man, protesting to Deorc: 'What are you doing?'

'I need blood for the fire,' the Bhrudwan replied acidly. 'Would anyone else like to volunteer?'

'But we are your allies!' shrieked Vertensia. 'We're on your side!'

'You are of no account,' Deorc responded. 'You are straw, and I come to set fire among you.

Now be silent, or you will burn before your time.' He turned towards the fire, set his face to it, and put the foolish conspirators to the back of his mind as the eager blue flame leaned towards him.

The Destroyer stood tall, looming like an avalanche over the girl who only now began to stir.

He had wrung her out, drained her of all she knew, which was not much - on the surface. A simple northern peasant girl, nothing more, not worthy of his attention. Dungeon fodder. But he had dug down deeper, remembering the time he first sensed her through the blue fire, remembering the touch of the Most High on her. No one could resist him when he dealt with them in person. And there, like a light hidden inside a shuttered room, he found it; a so-small kernel, an opening to the Realm of Fire, a jewel in a setting of dross. A life so ordinary, filled with petty fears; a small, mean spirit, with no capacity for greatness. A slave, not a master.

What had attracted Deorc to her?

The Undying Man could answer his own question with little difficulty. Somehow - she attributed it to a dream - she had been given the Fire of Life. This hint of power, wrapped up in an attractive, vulnerable package, would have drawn a man like Deorc. She did not know what she had, knew nothing of the power she could draw on, and was no threat to his plans, though he would keep her alive until he solved her mystery. But for what purpose had she been given the Fire?

This girl had to be a decoy, he concluded. The Most High had obviously not entrusted his defence of Faltha to such as her. Though she saw herself at the centre of the Most High's plans, this was'" plain self-deception. She must have received the Fire incidentally, as part of a larger group. If the rest of them were like her, he had nothing to be concerned about. He knew how unlikely that was. Others of her party must be more powerful than she, for with his own eyes he had seen the Jugom Ark, had felt the power of the Arrow wielded expertly by a shining youth, such as he himself had once been, two thousand years ago in the Vale. A shining youth who was undoubtedly the Right Hand.

And now, thanks to the knowledge embedded in the mind of the girl grovelling before him, the mystery began to unfold. Less than two years ago he had interrogated a man in Andratan, a Falthan spy from far Firanes sent to uncover Bhrudwan secrets. He squeezed that one dry, he remembered; but like all the Falthans he put to the question, this man knew nothing of the Right Hand. According to Deorc, who was Keeper at the time, he was put to death some time later. Only it transpired he had not been put to death at all. This Falthan spy had somehow returned to Firanes pursued by four Maghdi Dasht, sent, the Destroyer presumed, by Deorc in an attempt to put right his blunder. The Maghdi Dasht finally caught up with the spy, and that should have been the end of it - but, staggeringly, they had not killed him and whoever else might have learned of the plan to invade Faltha. Instead they made him captive and dragged him back towards Bhrudwo. Blunderers! Or was there something more sinister behind this? A subordinate positioning himself to take Deorc's place by winning the Undying Man's favour?

Or - it hardly seemed possible, he knew the mind of Deorc inside and out - was his most faithful servant finally aiming higher?

Surely it could not be. And yet... he cast his mind back to his arrival at Malayu several months ago. He spoke through the blue flame with Deorc that night, and his lieutenant denied sending the four warriors westwards. People had been sent to find out what became of them, Deorc told him. He remembered sensing a resonance through the flame . . .

Now, thanks to the memories of this girl still twitching on the floor, he knew what had happened to the four Maghdi Dasht, if not who sent them west. They had been defeated and slain, save one. Their captives rescued, not by great warriors, but by peasants from their home village. This northern girl was one of them! The one Maghdi Dasht remaining alive was taken into the service of the northern peasants. Tamed and set to work. Moreover - and this troubled him most of all - this spy named Mahnum, the man he had interrogated, had held in his own fortress, turned out to be the father of the Right Hand. Of this the girl's memories were unequivocal: she had seen the youth with the Arrow for only a moment, but recognised him beyond any doubt. The Undying Man sifted her mind to find out more about this Arrow-wielder, and uncovered her affection for him, hidden in a secret place, as though she herself turned from it. The youth had a name, and it echoed through her deepest thoughts. Leith Mahnumsen.

This information raised many questions, the most immediate of which was the role of Deorc.

The Keeper had either been deceived as to the supposed death of this Firanese Trader in his own dungeons, or had lied to his master. Certainly he was evasive about the activities and the fate of four Maghdi Dasht. He must have lied. Certainly there was now enough evidence to destroy the man. And, disturbingly, he found something else in the girl's mind, a package of fresh memories from two days ago when Deorc held her prisoner in a high tower. Her memories clearly indicated he had done things to her, touched her, tortured her, in violation of the express command of his master. The images were there, half-formed, as though seared into her mind against her will. Worse, according to her memory, he boasted to her that the Undying Man would never find out what he, Deorc, had done.