'Merciful Light!' cried the valet, aggrieved. 'His Exalted Self claimed he was scrying in search of the Master of Shadow to secure our defence against Darkness.'

'That's doubtless the lure that first saw him entrapped.' Raw with disgust, and taking due care not to sully his hands, the Lord Commander resettled the bloodied limb on the mattress.

Lysaer's unresponsive, comatose state whipped him to freezing despair. Had the High Priest's acolyte, Jeriayish, not died on campaign, the Alliance Commander would have flayed the skulking creature skin from bone, here and now: for hindsight suggested that the priest's rites of augury had opened the access to engage this fell binding. Whether through slipshod practice, or by darker design, the dire plot would not originate there. Someone insinuated into Avenor's inner council wished Athera's Divine Prince reduced to a puppet-string power.

The equerry was speaking. Sulfin Evend refocused his wits and insisted, 'Excuses don't matter. Stop dragging your feet! I can do nothing at all if you can't fetch the bowl and the knife that Lysaer used for the ritual. No! Don't touch them!' He barely quelled his imperative shout, as the page-boy scrambled to fling up the lid of one of his master's clothes-chests. 'Such objects are unclean and unspeakably dangerous. Lend me a silk shirt to wrap them.'

A fraught interval later, the Alliance Lord Commander braved the night in a borrowed servant's cloak, an anonymous shadow bound for the unsavoury district flanking Erdane's west postern. Crystalline frost crunched beneath his boots. Under the gleam of spring's constellations, the unseasonable chill cut his exposed skin like a scourge. Sulfin Evend slipped past the grey-on-black timbers of the shuttered shop-fronts and crafthalls. At each skulking step, his left instructions chased through his circling thoughts.

'Guard him! With your lives, do you hear? I'll send up my captain to stand at his door, and this time, no one comes in!'

No words could settle his harrowing dread. The alley he sought would be hidden from sight, guarded by ward since Avenor's harsh interdict, which outlawed the practice of talent. As ranking commander of the Alliance war host, Sulfin Evend knew he risked his life simply by showing his face here.

He pressed onwards, regardless. The artefacts he held bundled inside one of Lysaer's silk dress-shirts left him no rational alternative. His rapacious profile masked under his hood, Sulfin Evend closed his eyes and edged forward. One blind step, two; his third footfall raised a crawling chill. The eerie sensation surged through his boot-sole, chased up his spine, and p.r.i.c.kled his nape into gooseflesh.

Sulfin Evend kept his face averted and cautiously unsealed his sight.

The town-gate loomed ahead, alight in the glow of the watch lamps. To his right, a narrow, nondescript archway opened into rank darkness. Sulfin Evend resisted the urge to use more than peripheral vision. If he tried, the uncanny portal would vanish, not to reappear without use of initiate knowledge. He sucked a deep breath. Braced by a courage as dauntless as any demanded of him on a battle-field, he turned away from the main thoroughfare and plunged through the queer, lightless entry.

Darkness and cold ran through him like water, then as suddenly fell away. He found himself in a squalid back alley, little more than an uneven footpath overhung by ramshackle eaves and sagged stairways. The prankish gusts jangled the tin talismans of iyat banes, a dissonance that seemed to frame uncanny speech as he picked his uncertain way forward. The ground-level tenements were shuttered, but not locked. Here, the prospective thief was a fool, who ventured without invitation. Sulfin Evend picked his way forward, the c.h.i.n.k of fallen slates underfoot driving vermin into the crannies. The stairway he sought had carved gryphon posts, a detail he was forced to determine by touch, since no lamps burned in this quarter. No wine-shop opened its door to the night, and no lit window offered him guidance.

By starlight, Sulfin Evend mounted the stair. The creaking, slat risers bore his weight sullenly, no doubt inlaid with spells to warn away the unwary. Against quailing nerves, he reached the top landing, just as the door swung open to meet him.

'You've come to the right place,' said a paper-dry voice. Backlit by a glimmer of candle-flame, a wizened old woman in rags beckoned her visitor inward.

Heart pounding, skin turned clammy, Sulfin Evend understood there would be a price. Nonetheless, he crossed over her threshold.

'You've been expected,' the crone stated as she fastened the latches behind him.

Sulfin Evend believed his surprise was contained, until her crowed laughter said otherwise. Hunchbacked and ancient, she spun to confront him. Eyes blinded with cataracts picked at his thoughts as thoroughly as any dissection. No coward, he resisted his urge to step back as her seeress's talent unmasked him.

'What did you expect?' she admonished, not smiling. 'You come to consult, have you not? Would you rather have met with a charlatan?'

He bowed to her, managed not to sound shaken as he named her with careful respect. 'Enithen Tuer. Rightly or not, I have come to the only place where I might seek help within Erdane.'

'I know why you've come,' said the crone, fingers tucked in her mismatched layers of fringed shawls. 'Years, I have known. So many long years, that I am left weary with waiting.'

Her clipped gesture offered a rough, wooden chair.

Released all at once from her piercing regard, Sulfin Evend sat down as she bade him. Her attic was tiny, shelves and table-tops jammed with balled twine and strange leather sacks, filmed with the dust of years. Wrapped in the fragrance of drying herbals, smoke, and stale grease, the Alliance man-at-arms huddled under his cloak, afraid to disturb the unnerving items clutched in his awkward grasp. 'What do you require to lend me your services?'

'No coin.' Enithen Tuer shuffled to the hob. Her stumpy feet were bound in frayed flannel, and her fingers, chapped rough as a ragman's. She snapped a flint striker to give him more light. 'There is peril in this. Are you prepared? Can't be turning back once you've chosen.' Eerie, milk eyes surveyed him, unblinking, while the tallow-dips hissed on the mantel. 'Be aware, warrior. The cost will test and try you. If you are weak, you'll be broken.'

'What cost, old woman?' Struck cold, Sulfin Evend suppressed his impatience. 'I don't care for riddles or the drama of veiled threats. A man that I speak for lies dying.'

But Enithen Tuer would not be rushed. Her uncanny awareness seemed to press like a blade against the raced pulse at his neck. 'Beware who should carry your heart's pledge, brave man. The wise would walk softly, and rightly so. Lysaer s'Ilessid has been declared outcast from the terms of the Fellowship's compact.' The crone sensed his start; nodded. 'Ah, truly, then you do understand what that sentence means.'

'Explain anyway.' Unnerved by the pitfalls that might arise from the folly of a presumption, Sulfin Evend dropped pride. 'My sources at Hanshire might not have been accurate.'

Enithen Tuer decided to humour him. 'For breaking the sureties sworn by the Sorcerers, your prince's licence to inhabit this world is revoked. His fate will be ruled by Paravian law. All the worse, for the trouble you carry tonight. As a man disbarred, Lysaer can't ask for the grace of a Fellowship intercession.'

'But the Paravians are vanished!' Sulfin Evend shoved back his hood, ruffled as a jessed hawk. 'Should I fear the old races' absent reprisal? There are other powers abroad on Athera. Perhaps I should present my liege's appeal to the Order of the Koriathain.'

The seer raised frosty eyebrows. 'Would you indeed?'

Sulfin Evend steadied his rankled poise, aware all at once he was bargaining. 'Their oath of debt might give me the more lenient terms.' The sisterhood had chafed for thousands of years under the yoke of the Sorcerers' compact. Surely, in the breach of Paravian presence, they would extend arcane help if he asked them.

Enithen Tuer gave that prospect short shrift. 'Koriathain will not treat with the powers that currently shadow your prince. Why else, worthy man, did you come here? After the scandal that destroyed your grand-uncle, surely you recognized Lysaer's malaise as a blood-bound tie of compulsion?'

Sulfin Evend could not mask the straight fear that shot through him. 'How I'd hoped not. You're certain?'

The crone tucked bowed shoulders. 'Sure enough.' She seemed suddenly tired as her gesture encompa.s.sed the objects swathed under his cloak. 'The items you carry will show us which faction. 'No!' she exclaimed, arresting his move to unveil the unpleasant contents. 'Not so fast! Never, without wards of protection where such a cult has engaged active workings!' Porcelain eyes glinted, nailing him down with the force of their occult regard. 'I, too, must demand my due reckoning for this service. Will you bear the cost and the consequence?'

Her swift, stabbing finger forestalled his response. 'I will help. But know this, young man. You bring me my death. The moment I opened my door to admit you, that forecast outcome was set. I have waited to go, for years longed for the day I would greet the turn of Fate's Wheel. What are you willing to pay in exchange? Would you give your heart, if I ask, or the last breath in your lungs? Will you stand firm, and risk all you hold dear to salvage the life of your master?'

The Alliance Lord Commander said, threadbare, 'Anything. I must. The s'Ilessid prince carries my life debt.'

'Then shoulder your fate.' The crone bent to one side, and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the blackened spike of the fire iron. 'You are a loyal man, Sulfin Evend. There lies your strength and your downfall.'

'Enough caterwauling emotion, old dame.' Eyes like chipped slate matched that ancient, blind stare. 'How do you want your pledge satisfied?'

'Set down your burden,' the seeress replied. 'Then, if I can, I will ease your straits, but after you've sworn a caithdein's oath to the kingdom.'

'Here? In Erdane?' Prepared to unfasten the knots on the bundle, Sulfin Evend shoved upright, his brows arched with fierce incredulity. 'That's a perilous folly, since the Fellowship Sorcerers have already appointed the post to a reiving forest barbarian!' This was insane precedent, set alongside the fact that the Lord Mayor would subject any man who dared to revive the old forms of crown charter law to a branding, followed up with a public gelding.

'Folly, is it?' The ancient wheezed through a breathless laugh as she heaved herself to her feet. Fire-iron in hand, she stumped over the carpet and fetched a slender birch-rod from a hook. 'How little you know of your blood-line, young man.'

Sulfin Evend clenched his jaw, head turned as the crone touched the wood stave to the floor-boards. She began scribing a series of interlocked circles, her swaying steps moving widdershins.

'I won't hear this,' he stated. 'I can't. I'm aligned with the towns!' The witch had to know: he was a mayor's son by birth. The duties invoked by his Alliance office ran counter to all that Tysan's caithdein must stand for. 'I'm not free to swear you an oath to the land. My rank as commander of Lysaer's war host has already claimed my pledged loyalty.'

The old woman ignored him. She sealed the last circle, invoked a charm that puckered her forearms with geoseflesh, then hefted the iron and flicked back the silk that covered the ceremonial artefacts. Dingy glow from the dips brushed the blood-stained bowl, with its dark band of incised ciphers. The horrid, black knife, with its slender bone-blade seemed to drink the available light.

Enithen Tuer gave his vehement protest a sorrowful shake of her head. 'Then bear the cost of your pride, foolish man. The ones you oppose steal the living and usurp their ident.i.ties.' As Sulfin Evend turned pale, the crone nodded. 'Yes.' She flipped the shielding cloth back into place without ever touching the contents. 'They are necromancers. Unopposed, they will suck off your prince's vitality. When he is weakened enough to succ.u.mb, they'll replace him with another, long-dead awareness. To have any hope of standing against them, you must invoke the latent heritage of your blood-line.'

'My ancestress, the Westwood barbarian,' Sulfin Evend snapped, startled. 'd.a.m.n my forefather's unbridled l.u.s.t! You claim to know who she was?'

Enithen Tuer settled cross-legged on the rag rug by the hearth. Her marble eyes remained fixed ahead, as though the far past had been written across the murk of her spoiled vision. 'The first Camris princes were seated at Erdane. Their ancestress declined the honour of founding the lineage of Tysan's high kingship, did you know that?'

At Sulfin Evend's vexed breath, the crone nodded. 'Oh yes. There are records the vaults under the palace have lost. The Fellowship did not compel your first forebear. They would not, by the Law of the Major Balance. When their second choice, Halduin s'Ilessid, gave his willing consent to enact the blood binding for his future heirs, Iamine s'Gannley accepted his plea to stand shadow for that authority. She became the steward for Tysan's throne. Her descendants have kept that tradition, unbroken, for well over five thousand years.'

'Ancient history, old woman. This has nothing to do with me,' Sulfin Evend broke in. 'Nor does it bear on the life of my prince.'

'It has everything to do with your threatened prince!' the crone contradicted him, curt. 'In your generation, the old line of the Camris princes has devolved into three significant branches. In primary descent is Maenol s'Gannley, oath-bound as Tysan's caithdein. He has answered the Fellowship's call for an heir. One branch, until this generation, bore the t.i.tle of the Erdani earls, until its recent, importunate offspring established himself as unworthy. The other, descended matrilineally, is your own.'

Sulfin Evend might have laughed for the evil, sharp irony. With his father now standing as Mayor of Hanshire, and his uncle, Raiett Raven, as Lysaer's acting chancellor to secure the absentee mayorship at Etarra, his immediate family wielded the axe blade of Alliance power. That set them in direct opposition to s'Gannley, as dedicated enemies of the clans. Unless, of course, the preposterous tale was founded on senile fancy.

'A fine theory,' he said in scorching relief. 'I might have believed you, had my great-grandame not been taken captive in Westwood.'

Enithen Tuer nodded. 'She was there for her wedding. Her name, do you know it?' Sulfin Evend was forced to concede he did not. The infamy was part of the family legend. The woman had left a blank line in the register, when his great-grandsire had forced her to wife.

'Now you'll hear why. She was Diarin, Emric s'Gannley's first daughter. The clanborn blood enemy of Lysaer s'Ilessid is none other than your distant kindred.'

That news fell like a blow to the chest. Strong man though he was, his heart missed a beat: for why else should the Koriani enchantresses have pursued their strangling interest in his father's offspring? Moved to slow rage, Sulfin Evend said tartly, 'Old woman, which of my two b.o.l.l.o.c.ks would you take for your offering, that my prince might regain his autonomy?'

'Your oath,' said Enithen Tuer, not gently. 'Sworn now, on your blood and then repeated in the presence of a Fellowship Sorcerer. You must promise to journey to Althain Tower, where you will seal tonight's pledge in completion.'

'No man could reconcile what you demand,' Sulfin Evend blazed back.

The seeress stared him down. 'There must be. I have seen. One day fate will force you to choose which of two loyalties you will sacrifice. The land does not bear a blood-sworn oath lightly. The powers you invoke will be greater than you, and they will not treat with duplicity. You will stand before them, stripped naked, young man. Heart, mind, and body, you will be bound true. No way else can I give what you ask for.'

Sulfin Evend returned her glare, anguished. 'Demand something different! My own life, if you must! I cannot consent to dishonour.'

The crone watched him, saddened. 'Then go. Abandon the life debt you owe to s'Ilessid. Walk away loyal, and do nothing.'

Yet he could not. Should Lysaer be suborned by a necromancer's cult, the power at risk was too dire to unleash on an unsuspecting populace. The seeress had weighed the fibre of his character and measured him down to the bone. 'Then fetch out your knife, and be quick, old witch. You have saddled me with the reckoning.'

Late Spiring 5670.

Errand.

The unseasonable cold lingered on through the spring, bl.u.s.tering off the Bittern Desert and whistling over the stark bastion of Althain Tower, set amid the sere and frost-scoured hills. The tightly latched shutters rattled and creaked. Yet no influx of draught winnowed the candle in the snug chamber on the fourth floor. In the beleaguered lands to the west, this isolate haven remained: the tempestuous gales born of misaligned lane flux were not granted licence to enter.

The quarters where Sethvir of the Fellowship languished stayed sealed to inviolate calm. There, the wax light burned straight and true, as flame must, in the presence sustained by the white-robed adepts of Ath's Brotherhood.

Here, where tranquillity reigned absolute, the frail fulcrum that balanced the fate of the world trembled, poised, at the brink of disaster.

When Paravian presence had ebbed from the land, the Fellowship Sorcerers had shouldered the task of guarding Athera's mysteries. Heir to the last centaur guardian's gift of earth-sense, Sethvir provided their eyes and ears and much more: if he foundered now, the core balance of the planet would shift. The forces of expansive renewal would shrink, and the spiral would sink into entropy. Ath's initiates had extended their constant attendance ever since the Koriani Prime's insane bid to seize power distressed the flow of earth's lane flux. Although that imbalance was swiftly restored, the disruption deranged an array of spelled boundaries, including the ungoverned wells of raw chaos constrained by Athera's grimwards.

That black hour at midnight, while the wick burned serene, the most critical of these had been rededicated. Three yet remained, with the Sorcerers' resources strapped to the verge of paralysis. Sethvir kept the crippling vigil at Althain. Day to day, moment to precarious moment, he endured, while the insurgent trend of town politics moved apace to exploit the lapse of the Fellowship's oversight. No colleague owned the breadth of vision to counterbalance the triplicate breach. The slow burn of stressed wards consumed him, relentless, while Asandir braved the perilous work in the field, realigning torn ciphers and weaving the boundaries back to their former stability.

Sethvir lay prostrate to mask the stressed pain that leached at his innate vitality. Drawn flesh over bone, his stilled face seemed winnowed beyond substance, and his form, wrought of gossamer spirit light. The ivory hands tucked over the coverlet seemed naked without their archivist's spatter of ink stains.

Tonight, as the lane tides surged toward solstice, Sethvir's office as Warden of Althain demanded active use of his earth-sense. The adepts on watch as he asked for a.s.sistance numbered an even six.

Four were arrayed at the cardinal points to protect his weakened aura. Two more steadied a pane of polished obsidian, Sethvir's preferred tool to reflect the impressions garnered from current events. The combed fall of his beard streamed over his chest, scarcely stirred by his shallow breathing. His far-seeing eyes remained closed. If the tension pinching his parchment lids seemed the sole sign of his living awareness, he did not stint the demands of his task.

The images that unreeled like smoke over gla.s.s stayed meticulously clear as an etching . . .

. . . in the mountains near Eastwall, an auburn-haired enchantress lays a quartz sphere aside, while her mind rides a day-dream in longing search of a black-haired, green-eyed man . . . who, in a place far removed, looks up from an opened book and smiles an affirmation. 'Soon,' he a.s.sures, as her tender thought touches him. 'Brave heart, I'll fulfill my sworn promise to meet you . . .' - while far to the south, riding the turquoise swells off the Scimlade, a blonde-haired captain on an ocean-bound brig paces over her tossing decks, for not knowing the same man's location . . . while elsewhere, another clad in the nine-banded robes of the Koriani Prime Matriarch nurses her fire-scarred hands and commands an avid circle of scryers to search for the selfsame spirit . . .

Beloved, or friend, or inveterate enemy, all would find their desires deferred: Arithon Teir's'Ffalenn seemed content to extend his earned sanctuary in the caverns beneath Kewar's mazes.

Without judgement, Sethvir recorded. The male adept on station at south glanced up in concern at his counterpart, on guard at north. 'He's drastically weakened. Much longer's unwise.'

She inclined her hooded head in response, the silver-and-gold thread-work st.i.tched into her mantle glinting through the hazed light of her presence. Her hands moved, gently cradled the Sorcerer's head, and touched reverent thumbs to his brow. 'Sethvir is aware. His senses are tracking a formative current that demands his listening attention.'

In the dark gla.s.s, meantime, the sequential ripples sown by Arithon Teir's'Ffalenn flowed one after the next, un.o.bstructed.

. . . as in Halwythwood, alone, a younger girl weeps, and bitterly curses the name of the prince whose enemies destroyed her father . . . then that image dissolved, to another, showing a fat prophet and his dark-haired charge, asleep in the brush by the fringes of Atwood . . .

That instant, a static spark cracked across the polished face of the gla.s.s. The image sheared off, and re-formed to another: a view focused with the exquisite detail invoked by the blaze of true magecraft.

. . . in the close gloom of a candle-lit garret, a fighting man worn whipcord lean from campaign stands naked inside a scribed circle. At his side, a bent crone whispers quavering cantrips and calls the four elements to guard point!

Sethvir's eyes snapped open, their cerulean depths as vacant as fired enamel. 'Luhaine!' His whisper carried an imperative edge, and his gaunt hands locked on the coverlet. 'Luhaine! You are needed! Go to Erdane, at once! Our pledge to protect an old friend has come due.'

Yet the summons, once sent on the flicker of thought, today lacked the force to imprint the stream of the lane flux.

'He'll need to use quartz.' The adept at the Sorcerer's feet moved forthwith. Though by nature, he would not raise power to affect the way of the world, on request, he could fetch and carry for the infirm. Beyond the scarlet carpet, he delved into an ambry tucked in an embrasure that once had served as an arrow-slit.

'The clear point,' Sethvir prompted, his voice gravel rough. 'The one charged last week in the midday sun, that's wrapped up in fleece and black silk.' He shut tortured eyes as the unpolished crystal he required was laid into his anxious hands.

He cupped the base, traced its contours in welcome, while candlelight flared through its streamered veils and fired the shimmer of rainbow inclusions. As the stone warmed and awoke to the Sorcerer's touch, he acknowledged its conscious presence. A flash of joy answered. Moved to a faint smile in response, Sethvir lifted his trembling grasp and puffed a soft breath to charge the front-facing facet. Then he placed his thumbs overtop and aligned his determined awareness.

The quartz matrix imprinted his patterned thought, amplified his intent, and recast its frequency as a beacon. Sethvir's appeal rode the magnetic tides and ranged outwards, bearing summons to his distant colleague . . .

Far southward, gusty winds spattered rain on the gla.s.s of the fire-lit hall where the crowned sovereign of Havish kept late hours in council with his weather-beaten caithdein, Machiel, and three other seasoned advisors. The hand-picked foursome were not known for soft words. Under King Eldir's ringless, broad hands, the tally sheets lately compiled by the clerks showed the wear of a tactical chart spread for a siege. Machiel had a cross-bow disa.s.sembled on the table. His mood egg-sh.e.l.l brittle, he oiled and scoured the rust from the trigger latch, while his neighbours in their spotless brocades observed, wall-eyed, caught in the breach.

Yet the enemy confronting the restored realm of Havish wielded no concrete weapon.

As the unbalanced weather kept its savage grip, the sown crops were struck cold in the fields. The rich, coastal lowlands fared no better, as frost left the ground, and the driving storms drowned the farm-steads under sheet-silver puddles and ice melt. Swollen rivers were raised to boiling flood. Sea-going galleys were forced to stay battened, snugged to moorings within sheltered harbours. The roads were awash, soaked to bogging mud, and the looming spectre was famine.

Eyes gritted red from a sleepless night, King Eldir slouched in his lion-carved chair. A large man whose presence might not seem imposing, his square chin wore steely filings of stubble and a plain circlet contained his tousle of fading brown hair. The realm's scarlet tabard had no jewels or gold thread. His sleeve-cuffs were bare of embroidery.

In words just as blunt, he addressed a point of vacant air by the window nook. 'Our straits are grim, Luhaine. If we can't charter blue-water ships and skilled captains, the reserve stores we have can't be shifted an inch.' His irritation sprang from the exasperating fact: the best crews under sail in rough waters were a.s.sociates of Arithon s'Ffalenn, whose name was political disaster.

Eldir ran on, his intent features tracking the vexed breath of air, now riffling dust from his tapestries. 'If, as you say, the rains won't cross the Storlains, then Havistock's harvest won't fail. But word's in from Quaid. The pa.s.ses to Redburn are still choked with ice. Mercy on us, the inhabited country-side's devastated. Tomorrow, I'll be faced with reports that more children are wasting away from starvation!'

The discorporate Sorcerer paused in response, his florid style turned painfully clipped. 'That's not why I've come. Your treasury's not wanting. You can hire more deepwater vessels. If you're uneasy in bed with his Grace of Rathain -'

'That choice of alliance could start a war!' Machiel interrupted, busy hands sc.r.a.ping the firing pin.

Luhaine lost patience. 'We already have a war! I'm here to help you stay clear of it!' To the High King, he added, 'If you balk at liaison, then learn by example: Prince Arithon trained his captains by recruiting the cream of Eltair Bay's smugglers.'

-'It's his navigators we need, not his d.a.m.nable sly habits!' the Minister of Trade ventured sourly. 'So who needs to know?' snapped the spokesman from Mornos. 'Men with esoteric knowledge can be kept under wraps.'

'Who could guarantee their unsavoury characters?' The upright, prim chancellor forgot his ribboned cuffs and folded angry forearms on top of the oil rag. 'Would they change their stripes for a starving babe, do you think, when the same breed of henchmen cut throats in cold blood for the Master of Shadow's a.s.sault at the Havens?'

'That's enough!' Luhaine's outburst shook the floor with an ominous, subsonic vibration. 'Let us not sully facts with irrelevant hysteria.'

Eldir stared back with unswerving brown eyes. 'Should I be surprised? The one accursed name always saddles us with trouble. In fact, why have you come, Luhaine?'

Machiel remembered, by his disproving glance: the last unsought message from a Fellowship Sorcerer had plunged the royal court into mayhem, playing host when Arithon Teir's'Ffalenn had required sanctioned oversight for the ransom of Lysaer's first, ill-starred princess. As the pause hung, the caithdein broke in, sarcastic, 'Don't tell me the poisonous rumours are true? That Lysaer's second wife has gone missing?'