"They can leave Sanctuary any time they want, Wrayan. They just choose not to. Now go!"

"But . . . what are you going to do?"

"I have to stay here and close this gate behind you."

"Can't you do that from the other side?"

"No. Now leave! You don't have much time. Take care of the boy and don't get yourself killed any time soon, all right?"

Wrayan had a dreadful feeling that Brak was saying good-bye, but before he could reply, shouts at the end of the lane made him look around. Soldiers were charging down between the outbuildings, waving torches and swords with equal menace.

"Go!" Brak cried, slapping the rump of Wrayan's mare. The horse surged forward through the hidden gate, followed a moment later by the Fardohnyan woman on Brak's gelding. No sooner were they through the gate than it vanished and the wall behind them changed back to the appearance of solid rock.

Brak's horse reared. The woman fought to control it as Wrayan stared at the wall, the shouts and cries of the guards on the other side leaving no doubt about Brak's fate. He wouldn't have had time to close the gate and draw a glamour around himself to hide from the oncoming soldiers.

"We need to get out of here!" the woman reminded Wrayan urgently.

He was still staring at the wall, his eyes misted with tears.

"Hey! Lightfinger! Can you hear me?"

Wrayan forced back his shock and grief to look at his new travelling companion. The child in his arms showed no sign of regaining consciousness. "I hear you."

"Then let's ride, my friend," she advised, "because it's not going to be long before they decide that secret gate your friend conjured up for us might not have been a figment of their limited but collective imaginations."

"But Brak-"

"He's probably dead."

Wrayan glared at her, wishing this woman, whoever she was, would not deal with death quite so casually. Her expression softened a little when she saw his grief and she smiled. "He said he was here when they built this place. I suppose that's how he knew about that gate."

Wrayan nodded mutely, still trying to deal with the notion that Brak might be dead.

"That would make him what? Over six . . . maybe even seven hundred years old?"

Wrayan nodded again, but remained silent.

"He knew how to open it, too." The woman gathered up her reins and shook her head in wonder. "By the gods . . . he really was the Halfbreed, wasn't he?"

"Yes," Wrayan replied, pulling the unconscious child a little closer to him. "He really was." And someone, he thought, numbed by the very idea, is going to have to tell the Harshini that Lord Brakandaran te Carn is dead.

But that was something he could deal with later. First, he had to get out of Fardohnya in one piece. In light of the company in which he suddenly found himself, that might prove more difficult that he'd anticipated. He stared at the woman, wondering what he'd done to deserve being burdened with such a dangerous liability.

"Do you have a name?" he asked, turning for the Widowmaker Pass.

"Kantel," the woman replied, kicking Brak's mount into a canter with the awkward seat of one unfamiliar with horses. "My name is Chyler Kantel."

Chapter 33.

Wrayan rode through the Widowmaker Pass almost without stopping, anxious to put as much distance between himself and Fardohnya as possible before dawn. He wanted to get past Winternest, too, before the Hythrun fortress came awake.

Chyler Kantel deserted him even before they were over the border. As soon as they reached the first of the bandit trails in the pass, she hauled Brak's horse to a stop and dismounted. Wrayan turned to find out what she was doing. Perhaps she needed to relieve herself, he thought. She shouldn't need a rest. They hadn't been on the road long enough for that.

"This is where you and I part company, Wrayan Lightfinger," she announced, handing him the reins of the gelding.

Wrayan glanced at the trail winding up the steep slope into the forest and nodded in understanding. She was a bandit, an accomplished killer, and a Fardohnyan at that. There was no reason for her to go to Hythria. And then it came to him. "Chyler's Children," the customs man had called the Fardohnyan bandits.

"Back to work, eh?"

She shrugged. "I'm a follower of Dacendaran. I prefer to think of it as a divine calling more than a career."

He accepted the reins of the other horse, wondering if he could risk putting the child on it, but the boy was still unconscious. "You know, in Hythria they believe you're in the pay of the Fardohnyan king."

"Hablet doesn't pay for anything," Chyler scoffed.

"So it's just chance that you target the Hythrun caravans and leave the Fardohnyan merchants alone?"

She smiled. "One can be a thief and a patriot, you know. The two aren't mutually exclusive."

"Will you answer one more question before you go?"

"You want to know why I killed Danyon Caron?"

"Yes."

Chyler pointed at the ragged, limp bundle Wrayan was holding. "That boy you have there? He almost met the same fate this evening as my nephew did a year ago."

Wrayan's expression must have been sufficiently confused that she felt the need to explain further.

"Most of my people have families in the area, Master Lightfinger, either living at the fort or working as trappers and loggers in the mountains around here. Danyon Caron paid a visit to the village where my sister lives a bit over a year ago. He was just passing through. But one night was all it took.

Poor Odie . . . he's not spoken a word since that night. He just stares into the distance, wasting away before our very eyes." Chyler's expression hardened. This was not a woman to be crossed lightly.

"Anyway, I passed through the village a couple of weeks later and my sister told me what had happened and who'd done it. I'm not stupid enough to try to take down a Guild man as highly placed as Danyon Caron-not on his turf, at any rate-so I sent him a message. I warned that sleazy little bastard that if he ever came near Westbrook again-my turf-I'd have him for what he did to my nephew."

"How is it that you wound up in the dungeons?"

"He had a meeting with some big note from one of the Hythrun Guilds. The Wraith, his name was, so I hear. Apparently, he insisted they meet at Westbrook. Danyon knew I'd kill him the first chance I got, so he lured me into the fortress on the pretext of shifting some stolen goods. I should have known just from the price they were offering for the stuff that it was a trap. I was arrested the day he got here."

Chyler studied Wrayan for a moment in the starlight and then swore softly. "I'll be damned! I suppose you're the big note from Hythria?"

"Not a title I'd usually grant myself."

"Wrayan the Wraith, eh? I've heard about you."

"Have you now?"

"I heard you single-handedly lifted the entire contents of the Sorcerers' Collective museum in Greenharbour a few years ago."

"That's a gross exaggeration."

She seemed amused. "In my experience, most claims to fame usually are. But thanks, anyway."

"For what?"

"Your visit to Westbrook gave me a chance to even the score with that prick, Caron. And the best part is-nobody will even know it was me who did it."

"No," Wrayan agreed. "They'll probably blame it on the 'big note' from Hythria that Danyon Caron came to Westbrook to meet."

That seemed to amuse Chyler Kantel rather than worry her. "Good thing you're headed home then, eh? Not planning to come back this way any time soon, I hope?"

"I'm not likely to now that I'm probably wanted by the Qorinipor Guild for murder."

"I'm sure you'll be able to clear up any misunderstanding in the Guild. You being a 'big note' and all." She reached up and patted Rory's shoulder in farewell. "What'll happen to him now?"

"He'll be safe with me."

"They thought he was a sorcerer, you know. Claimed he killed a man in Talabar. He's a brave kid-surrendered himself so he wouldn't freeze to death in the mountains. That takes real guts when you're wanted for murder. You could tell he was scared, but he was convinced help was on the way."

Chyler smiled. "The Halfbreed coming for him is proof enough he's what they claimed, I suppose. You one of them, too?"

Wrayan shrugged, not exactly sure what one of them was supposed to mean. He guessed she meant someone with magical talent. "Sort of."

"You'll see him safe then. In Hythria somewhere? Somewhere they won't find him?"

"Yes."

She hesitated a moment longer, then turned suddenly and took the steep path into the forest without looking back.

And that was the last Wrayan saw of Chyler Kantel.

He stopped several hours past sunrise in a small copse of trees by the roadside some twenty miles south of Winternest. The horses were exhausted and Wrayan's arms felt as if they were made of lead after carrying the weight of Rory all night while towing Brak's horse behind them. He lowered the boy to the ground and groaned as his stiff muscles protested their sudden release. Wrayan let the horses drink their fill while he checked on the boy. He was becoming increasingly concerned that the child was showing no signs of life yet. And all he could do about it was worry. He had no idea what he'd been drugged with and no healing talent to do anything about it anyway, even if he'd known. The child was thin and, surprisingly, as fair-haired as any Hythrun child. His skin was pallid, his lips pale and tinged blue, but whether from the cold or some side effect of the drug he'd been given, Wrayan had no way of telling. But the child's breathing seemed even enough and the pulse at his neck was strong and steady.

Wearily, Wrayan sat on the damp grass beside the boy and let the events of the past few hours wash over him. He was drained from trying to imagine a scenario in which Brak had survived. He was numb at the thought that a man who had lived so long and through so much, a legend who meant so much to the Harshini, could be so easily pushed into the arms of Death.

Wrayan reached inside his shirt for the pendant Brak had given him and studied it for a moment, wondering how it worked. He could feel the magic locked in the little crystal cube, but wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with it. Perhaps this was a device to amplify one's telepathic abilities? Wrayan was a competent enough telepath, but he didn't have the power to reach Sanctuary. The furthest he'd ever tried to reach was just over a hundred miles. The hidden Harshini settlement in the Sanctuary Mountains must be over a thousand miles from here.

And even if he could reach out and touch the minds of the Harshini, who would he call? And what would he say?

Slipping the little cube back into his shirt with a weary sigh, Wrayan lay back on the grass next to his unconscious charge and closed his eyes. He would rest for a moment, he decided, and figure out what to do about Rory, about Brak, about the trouble he had coming with the Thieves' Guild, and everything else, when he'd had a few minutes to relax . . .

Which was Wrayan's last coherent thought until he woke up to discover it was dark again and Shananara te Ortyn was kissing him.

"Are you mad ?"

Shananara sat back on her heels and looked at Wrayan with a puzzled expression. "I thought you'd be glad to see me, Wrayan. Was I wrong?"

Wrayan struggled to sit up, his mind still having trouble grasping the notion that Shananara was actually here in front of him on the side of the road, a thousand miles from the safety of Sanctuary.

There was a small fire going and the smell of something delicious cooking over it. She had obviously been through his pack and found his gear.

Desire warred with common sense as he stared at her. "What . . . what are you doing here?"

"You called me."

"No, I didn't."

The Harshini princess reached into his shirt and pulled out the little crystal cube on the chain around his neck. "Yes, you did, my love. I gave this to Brak, by the way. Is he around?"

That was one question Wrayan was nowhere near prepared to answer. "How did you get here?"

he asked instead, looking around for some sort of transport. She was wearing Dragon Rider's leathers, her statuesque body outlined in distracting detail, but there was no sign of any animals other than the two horses he'd brought with him.

"By dragon, of course!" she laughed. "I let the meld go when I got here. I wasn't sure what the locals would think about a dragon sitting by the side of the road. Dranymire and the other demons are around here, somewhere. They'll come back when I need them."

"Your highness . . . Shananara . . . have you any idea how dangerous it is for you here?" he gasped. The road was deserted, fortunately, but there was no telling who was out there. No telling who had seen a dragon flying over the mountains, either.

"This is Hythria, Wrayan. It's probably the safest place for a Harshini outside of Sanctuary. That's why Brak wanted you to take this child back with you, wasn't it?"

Wrayan nodded, rather alarmed to think the child was still out cold. Rory lay peacefully on his side, his skin and lips a much healthier colour than when Wrayan had dozed off.

"He's sleeping now," Shananara assured him, noticing the direction of his gaze. "There is no more poison in his blood."

"Did you do that?"

She nodded. "It's a good thing you are doing for this child, Wrayan."

"Brak wanted me to take him to the Sorcerers' Collective." He found it hard not to choke on Brak's name.

"That's probably the best place for him."

Wrayan frowned. "You might not say that if you knew the current High Arrion, your highness."

The princess shrugged, her inhuman black-on-black eyes reflecting no fear or concern about the danger to Rory. "High Arrions come and go, Wrayan. This one is no better or worse than many others who have held the job."

"But when she discovers the child has talent-"

"She will try to manipulate it," Shanan finished for him. "And the child."

"That won't be good," Wrayan pointed out. "For anybody."