The cartographer's chronicles: book I

From the unnatural long lives of Old Testament prophets and Gandalf the Grey, to the immortality of Elves and The Highlander, I am fascinated by stories of longevity and immortality. I chose medieval fantasy as a genre to answer my own question about immortality: How far into hell can seven people take a world and still hope to be redeemed? The day Sylva's favorite student graduates from his military training, she is murdered in her home. An investigation ensues. When her student, Ustin, sees her alive the next morning, the investigation turns into a "man-hunt" for the victim. Sylva has survived her own murder. For Ustin, this means traveling outside his homeland with the menacing Prince Endegar. For Sylva, it may mean dying all over again. The novel spans three weeks and thousands of years, from the age in which The Six were first made immortal, to the day Sylva is found by her husband and pupil, only to be lost again. In the time leading up to that day, Ustin must decide what kind of man he will become. When he realizes what his backwoods warrior-society has turned him into, he seeks an alternative to the violent culture from which he comes. Ustin lives in a microcosm created to protect its inhabitants from a world that struggles against a cycle of its own natural and unnatural destruction. The Six ruled for thousands of years, testing every method of dictatorial government. When cataclysms occurred, The Six were sure to survive and lead the remainder of humanity into the next cycle of destruction. The vacuum created when they choose to leave ruling and live in obscurity has the power to destroy the world yet again. Through a mixture of chance and choice, Ustin, Sylva, and Endegar become players in the world struggle for redemption.

THE CARTOGRAPHER'S CHRONICLES: BOOK I by Charles Thomas Plummer A thesis submitted to the faculty of The University of Utah in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Department of English The University of Utah May 2014 Copyright © Charles Thomas Plummer 2014 All Rights Reserved Add lower case Roman numeral page numbers for second and subsequent pages of sections. Abstract is p. iii. There should be no page numbers on main (title) pages or on the copyright page. The University of Utah Graduate School STATEMENT OF THESIS APPROVAL The following faculty members served as the supervisory committee chair and members for the thesis of_________________________________________________. Dates at right indicate the members' approval of the thesis. _________________________________________, Chair ________________ Date Approved ________________________________________, Member ________________ Date Approved ________________________________________, Member ________________ Date Approved The thesis has also been approved by__________________________________ Chair of the Department/School/College of____________________________________ and by David B. Kieda, Dean of The Graduate School. Charles Thomas Plummer Melanie Rae Thon 12/4/2013 Thomas Stillinger Barry Weller English Michael Mejia 12/4/2013 12/4/2013 ABSTRACT From the unnatural long lives of Old Testament prophets and Gandalf the Grey, to the immortality of Elves and The Highlander, I am fascinated by stories of longevity and immortality. I chose medieval fantasy as a genre to answer my own question about immortality: How far into hell can seven people take a world and still hope to be redeemed? The day Sylva's favorite student graduates from his military training, she is murdered in her home. An investigation ensues. When her student, Ustin, sees her alive the next morning, the investigation turns into a "man-hunt" for the victim. Sylva has survived her own murder. For Ustin, this means traveling outside his homeland with the menacing Prince Endegar. For Sylva, it may mean dying all over again. The novel spans three weeks and thousands of years, from the age in which The Six were first made immortal, to the day Sylva is found by her husband and pupil, only to be lost again. In the time leading up to that day, Ustin must decide what kind of man he will become. When he realizes what his backwoods warrior-society has turned him into, he seeks an alternative to the violent culture from which he comes. Ustin lives in a microcosm created to protect its inhabitants from a world that struggles against a cycle of its own natural and unnatural destruction. The Six ruled for thousands of years, testing every method of dictatorial government. When cataclysms 􀁌􄰀􀁙􅥯 occurred, The Six were sure to survive and lead the remainder of humanity into the next cycle of destruction. The vacuum created when they choose to leave ruling and live in obscurity has the power to destroy the world yet again. Through a mixture of chance and choice, Ustin, Sylva, and Endegar become players in the world struggle for redemption. TABLE OF CONTENTS ABSTRACT. iii CHAPTERS 1 THE PRACTICE YARD. 1 2 THE PIN . 10 3 A NIGHT AT HOME. 15 4 OLD HAT, NEW HEAD. 24 5 ENLISTMENT . 33 6 THE JUNGLE. 46 7 THE TIGER OF KELKAAM. 50 8 STRANGERS . 67 9 DOWN THE RIVER. 84 10 THE IMPERIAL ROAD. 92 11 CONFRONTATIONS . 99 12 EITHER OAR. 110 13 FIRST BLOOD. 121 14 A BED-TIME STORY. 129 15 THE MASQUE. 138 16 GABHOLO. 142 17 A NEW WORLD. 143 18 THE CAGED BIRD . 150 19 A PARTY OF ONE . 151 20 A TIME THAT WAS. 152 21 UNFAMILIAR. 164 22 AN ACT OF CURIOSITY. 167 23 FORMULATIONS. 171 24 ANA. 174 25 ARMS MASTER SYLVA. 190 26 CHANGES OF THE UNPLANNED . 191 27 THE NECROMANTIC BLADE. 203 28 THE NEXT LEG OF THE JOURNEY. 204 􀁙􅤀􀁌􄰀􀁌􄰀 CHAPTER 1 THE PRACTICE YARD Midmorning sun lit the abstract pillar of stone that rose a thousand paces above the jungle floor. It cast its shadow northwest toward the similarly sized cliffs that encompassed the fen. Some thought the pillar resembled an hourglass that had been stretched through the middle and flattened on both ends. Others thought it looked like the hilt of a weapon, but everything reminded the Fenpela of a weapon. The city of Kelkaam perched on the towering stone like a nest for a flightless people. They had made the fen and its pillar their home since the end of the Age of Necromancy-an age remembered in the traditions of the Fenpela, even if its relevance had been lost. Windows and balconies speckled the pillar beneath the city where layers had been carved out of the stone when the upper surface became too crowded for a tribe that had become a civilization. The original practice yard at the top of Kelkaam sat near the city's center open to the air and sun. Shadows from the linden trees that surrounded the ring crept in and out of the yard throughout the day. The spring blossoms of the linden trees were a season-oasis above a desert of evergreens knowing only wet and dry for the passing of time. Training amongst the blossoms was like fighting in perfume. At least until the fermented odor of sweaty teenagers filled the ring. Sylva Seawood leaned on a wooden practice sword 2 waiting for her solo appointment. The weight of her hand and hip drove the point into the ground while she toed the dirt with her boot. The sun warmed her face and her leathers. Mornings in the yards were reserved for those not old enough to join the guard. This morning she would train her favorite student for close to the last time. "Arms Master Sylva," a boy called through the opening in the trees. "May I approach?" Sylva gave a wry smile at the boy with the constellation of adolescence on his face. He wore his wavy, black hair pulled back like most Fenpela during training. Sometimes Sylva thought about cropping her straight, sandy hair just to make her differences that much more pronounced. Ustin lived on one of the lower levels of the city. He had been one of her students since he started the sword at age eight. There were other training yards closer to his home, but Ustin claimed he preferred the open-air yard surrounded by trees to the balcony plazas surrounded by rock and fungi. Sylva suspected he liked practicing with the foreign woman. "Young Master Ustin, approach." Ustin was a week away from eligibility to join the guard as a messenger. She thought he must be getting impatient to win his first strike pin. Most of his peers had won their pins by going to the lower rings, but he seemed determined to win his from Sylva. She stood up straight as Ustin walked to meet her in the center of the enclosure. He held his own practice sword and was dressed ready to spar in padded leather armor with gloves to match. During Sylva's time in the Bayside kingdom, she would have assumed that Ustin was a nobleman's son outfitted as he was, but there were no noblemen in Kelkaam. All men and women served in the guard for some period of time regardless of their situation, and this type of equipment was issued to everyone over eight years of age. Ustin stood a 3 pace in front of Sylva and waited for her to decide on his training for the day. She raised her practice sword in front of her. "Practice positions." Sylva started all of her students' practices with the rudiments of swordplay. Most youth his age groaned when she made them start this way, but Ustin never complained no matter how basic the training. Nor did he complain when she sent him home with bruises up and down his body. Sylva had never heard Ustin be anything but respectful. He was eager to learn, too. On more than one occasion he had shown up sick. Sylva worked him until he turned green; she sent him home only if he vomited. They crossed practice blades in the prescribed motions with their feet in fighter's stance. After five rotations through the perpleg, the foundation blades or first engagements as they were called, they circled round each other. They repeated the perpleg, concentrating on the movement of their feet. First they made a full circle with the sun and then a full circle against the sun. Clockwise and counter-clockwise, Sylva thought, as they would say in the big cities of the continent, where they have such things. Once the circles were made, Sylva and Ustin continued the perpleg in a line-first with Sylva moving forward and Ustin backward, then the opposite direction. Once they were back in the center of the ring they started over using dwopleg, or second engagement. They continued this through all ten engagements of the Pektong. By the end of the tenth engagement, sweat polished Ustin's skin to a shiny bronze- except the red spots that threatened to scar his cheeks before he had a chance to get scarred in battle. Sylva's own skin was fairer than the Fenpela's with a nasty nick to one side of her chin from their enemies in the southern mountains. Without rest Sylva called out "Aldfen" then stood defensively allowing Ustin to attack first. Ustin whirled into a 4 wild attack common to the Aldfen style that only the Fenpela and the mountain peoples practiced. The erratic movements of Aldfen appeared desperate to the strictest followers of Pektong. But Aldfen could be most effective against such an opponent. It gave the appearance of leaving a fighter open to a strike, but the openings were more like feints, even taunts, built right into the style. Her husband, Endegar, had taught it to her when they first met in Bayside kingdom. It was how she had beaten Prince Harold of that kingdom in her first duel. Actually she had beaten him by using her own mixture of Aldfen and Pektong that surprised even Endegar, though he would never admit it. Ustin's obvious self-discipline had led Sylva to believe that he would excel at Pektong, but flounder with Aldfen. He had proven her wrong years before. When she told Endegar of the assumption she had made about Ustin, Endegar explained that Aldfen was a part of the Fenpela-not just as a fighting style, but in the people. It had made sense to Sylva; the Fenpela could be erratic. But the fen society dealt with its social chaos in an orderly manner. Peculiarity in the eyes of outsiders was common in Kelkaam. It was outsiders who were rare. Now Ustin whirled away at her, or so it appeared. His sword blurred as he twisted it around from his wrist, allowing the weight of the blade to create its own momentum. Then he locked his wrist and put the force of a true strike behind it. Sylva blocked and made her own strike which Ustin blocked. Her sword was now twirling as well. This was not a drill like the ten engagements of the Pektong. Once a student knew the basics of Aldfen, student and arms master would spar to first touch. This meant years of bruises for young students, but all students had to achieve first touch with a practice sword on an arms master to be admitted to the guard. 5 Ustin pressed Sylva with a series of weak attacks, forcing her to step backwards. Then he stopped his feet. When she made to strike back, he struck first. She managed to block, but he had unbalanced her. "Excellent," she said as she stepped back to regain her footing. He kept at her. Again he tried a series of weak attacks to move her back, but this time Sylva made an aggressive defense by returning a strike with each parry. She made them stronger strikes with each consecutive block until Ustin was backing up. "Those tricks will only work once in a fight," She cautioned. But just as Ustin looked as if he would lose his balance, he caught himself and kicked at Sylva's legs. She had to move quickly to avoid being tripped. Ustin had lulled her into a sense of false confidence by feigning to be a one-trick opponent. The second attempt had been a ruse to get her to move more aggressively toward him. "Very nice." Sylva began mixing in Pektong with the Aldfen. She stopped whirling her blade and took a traditional defensive crouch. When Ustin came in with his blade twirling she blocked with Pektong then twirled into Aldfen for an attack. Ustin blocked Sylva's Aldfen attack with a series of Pektong parries typically used against multiple opponents. This allowed him to block the attack and then connect with her sword while she moved to twirl it again. Instead of being able to go back to an Aldfen defense, Sylva's blade was knocked wide leaving her exposed with Ustin's blade on the inside. To avoid the kill shot, Sylva swept Ustin's legs with her foot. Ustin tumbled to the ground. This was the first time Sylva had been forced to achieve first touch on Ustin with something other than a killing strike. 6 Ustin lay panting in the dust of the practice ring with a toothy grin. Sylva grinned back, then extended her arm to help him up. "You had some brilliant tactics there. I've never seen you ruse someone like that. Have you been holding out on me all this time?" "No, arms master," Ustin said. His smile faded. "It's a new trick I just tried yesterday." "I watched you spar with young master Oren yesterday. I didn't see you try anything like that." Ustin's grin was gone now. He looked uncomfortable. "Well, it was something I tried after I left your ring." Sylva narrowed her eyes. "You haven't been double practicing, have you? It's dangerous for someone your age to be driven by two trainers when one doesn't know about the other." "No, arms master, please. It's nothing like that." Ustin looked stricken by the accusation. "I was goaded." For the third time in only a few minutes Ustin managed to catch her off balance. Ustin was the most reserved Fenpela Sylva knew. His father was the next most reserved, and his mother had the heart beat of a Seawoods turtle and the patience to match. "By whom?" "Arms Master Artrond." Silence. Sylva could have sworn there was a hint of distaste in the way Ustin said the name. The boy was full of surprises today. "Arms Master Artrond goaded a fifteen-year-old boy?" Sylva asked. Ustin had already broken many assumptions she had about him over the years; that he would not be 7 as adept at Aldfen as other youth; that his quietness was due to shyness or a lack of thought; and now that he could not be goaded. She hoped he was not about to unwind her assumption that he was an honest boy as well. Artrond is an ass, Sylva thought, but a bully? Ustin stood a little straighter and took the stance of one approaching an arms master with respect. "Yes, Arms Master Sylva." "Explain." She kept her tone neutral. "Arms Master Artrond has been trying to goad me for the past year. Especially when he has other students in the ring with him. Almost every morning on my way here, he calls out to me and asks why I think I'm too good to train with the other boys from my level of the city." "I'm surprised you haven't changed routes to come up here." "I am not afraid of words, Arms Master Sylva." "Of course not," Sylva placated. "I only meant that if you've been so determined not to be goaded, then why put yourself through all the name calling?" "Arms Master Artrond runs the ring right outside my front door." Sylva nodded. "So he's been goading you for years. What cracked your crab all of a sudden?" Ustin must have gotten the gist, because he answered without asking what a crab was. He turned down his face before admitting. "He got more personal in his attacks." "I see." Sylva could sense Ustin's humiliation at losing his prized self control. Boys and girls taunted each other in the ring all the time, but Ustin had never been distracted. Not when Oren insulted trackers; not when Itzel threatened to crack his little sister in the 8 ring; nor when Aavid asked for his pants back from Ustin's mother's bedroom. Not even when Elsa offered to show him her breasts if he let her win. Sylva would have thought he went deaf during matches if he hadn't been so good at following instructions and suggestions while sparring. "So, what happened in the ring?" "After he said ... what he said ... I walked toward the ring. It was the first time I'd given him a reaction, so he was grinning like a ... well, he had a big smile. That made me madder. I looked toward my house and saw my dad standing on the opposite side of the ring. He was watching the whole thing. I was just about to challenge Artrond, but the sight of my dad shamed me. Then he nodded at me, and I knew he approved." Ustin lifted his head again. "So I challenged Artrond to a dual of first touch and slapped him on the arm." "You won?" Sylva hoped her surprise didn't hurt Ustin, but Artrond was an excellent fighter for all of his faults. "You slapped Arms Master Artrond on the arm?" "My father witnessed the whole thing," Ustin blurted out. "No, I believe you Ustin. I... I just wish I'd been there to see it. As your mentor." "I'm sorry about that," Ustin said lowering his head. "But it's fine. You'll still be there for my first strike." "Ustin, that was it. It's done." "No." Ustin shook his head in earnest. "Arms Master Artrond said it didn't count as a first strike. He said it was a lucky shot and the result of a goading." "What did your father say about that?" "He didn't say anything." Ustin looked at a loss. "Your father doesn't know that Artrond won't give you a first strike pin?" 9 "It never came up." "Ustin," Sylva could feel herself losing patience. "Arms Master Artrond owes you one of his pins. That's how it works. It doesn't matter if it was a lucky shot, which I doubt it was. It doesn't matter if he goaded you first. You hit an arms master in a fair bout. You have earned first strike." Ustin blinked. "Really?" "Really." Sylva knew that she would have to straighten Artrond out, but for now she wanted to let Ustin feel the pride that was his to feel. Sylva placed her feet shoulder width apart, held her sword blade down with both hands around the hilt and her back straight. "Master Ustin. I salute you on your first strike." Ustin mimicked her posture and nodded solemnly. Then he broke out into a huge grin for the second time that morning. "Thank you, Arms Master Sylva." Sylva could see the joy beaming through every pore of the young man's face. Even those clouded by red spots. CHAPTER 2 THE PIN "Arms Master Artrond, I challenge you to first touch with terms." Sylva stood at the edge of the training area with the appropriate stance for an arms master hailing another master at his ring. She held the hilt of her practice sword in both hands with the blade up to announce the challenge. Five boys' heads swiveled like birds sensing a predator. They huddled around Artrond who had been explaining something to them when Sylva interrupted. Even as he looked at her, he appeared relaxed; but she saw him pump his fist while waving his students away with his other hand. "Mistress Sylva, approach." Sylva was not goaded by his disrespectful stance, nor did she care that he had called a married arms master by the title of a girl still training for first strike. She knew how Artrond felt about her. She was a foreigner who had married into the Fenpela with no traditions. And she had not married just anyone. Sylva's husband Endegar was the future Grand Master of Kelkaam. Artrond belonged to a group of men known as the Ongyofen. They held the belief that the Aldfen was kept more sacred if the blood of all Fenpela was pure. They were a proud lot, and Artrond was prouder than any she had met. Artrond's affiliation with the Ongyofen was why he only taught Aldfen-in order to keep the culture 11 as pure as the bloodlines. Sylva would play the part of one in perfect harmony with the Aldfen, even while Artrond stood casually at the center of the ring treating her like one beneath his notice instead of like a fellow arms master. When she stood at sword's reach from Artrond, he asked, "What terms?" "If I win, you will give a first-strike pin to Ustin, son of Insek, which he rightfully earned yesterday." Artrond's eyes narrowed. "He told you that, did he?" "He told me that he hit your arm in a challenge match." "It wasn't an official challenge, it was a goading. That's not part of Aldfen." "Horse shit." Artrond stood up straight and clutched his practice sword. "Aldfen is not horse shit..." "I didn't say it was; your interpretation of it is. The laws of Kelkaam hold that a trainee who is able to achieve first touch in a match against an arms master is to receive a first-strike pin and report to the quartermaster that he or she is ready for posting as a messenger in the guard. The law says nothing of Aldfen as either a tradition or a school of training. There has never been any ceremony in the law for how the challenge is to be issued, why it is issued, or how it is to be fought. Traditions may be traditions, but law is law. You owe that young man a pin." Artrond relaxed again, then spit to the side and leaned on his practice sword. "What are the terms if I win? Just the right to withhold my pin? Not much of a challenge." "You may take the standard terms." Artrond grinned at that. "You would challenge an arms master of a lower ring in order to gain a pin for that pimply little whelp?" 12 Sylva could see how easy it must have been for Ustin to ignore him for a year. "What on Kwel did you say to that boy to make him lose his cool, anyway?" Artrond's grin widened. "He didn't tell you? Well, let's set the terms straight first. If you win, your red-speckled little boy gets his pin. If I win, I get to trade you training shifts. You'll come down here to fourth ring; I'll move up to top ring. Have I got that right?" Sylva nodded. "Seems like first touch is a bit trite for a grudge match between seasoned arms masters. If you feel the need to defend the honor of your pencil-peckered little disciple, maybe we should change the terms to hand-to-hand." Artrond looked Sylva up and down. "We could fight to an immobilization hold." "If you're so desperate to get your hands on me without it counting as first touch, I'd be happy to change the terms to first killing strike instead." "Challenge accepted." Artrond spun his practice sword into his hand and leapt forward. Sylva side stepped the wild charge and blocked his sword. The vibration made her fingers hurt. He had tried to push her back with his charge using the brute force tactics of Aldfen, but Pektong defenses allowed for avoidance, forcing an opponent to circle with you or get struck in the back. Sylva went for Artrond's back, knowing he was a strict follower of Aldfen, but Aldfen had effective defenses against Pektong too. He spun fast enough to block her attack with a swing that could break a neck, even with a practice sword. Sylva realized that the first-killing-strike terms they had agreed to might be literal if she did not best Artrond fast. She attacked with a rapid succession of strikes. Alternating between swings and stabs as often as possible, she tried to keep his defenses 13 changing and surprise him with a ferocity she hoped he would unbalance him. It worked for a moment, but Artrond recovered with good form. His defenses were standard Aldfen, so Sylva changed up between styles; a stab with one style led into a swing with the other leading to a stab with that one and a swing with the other. She had him moving backwards and on his guard, but then he planted his feet, blocked one of her strikes wide to his right and followed it with his left fist across her cheek. The impact knocked her two steps sideways, but she managed to keep her feet and block his sword swing as he brought the blade back the other way. Sylva realized that Artrond cared less about winning than he cared about beating her. He had called it a grudge match, but she now realized how true that was for him. Whatever hatred he held for her, he would pound out of her flesh if she let him get that kind of opportunity again. She allowed Artrond to take the offensive while she backed away and circled around, giving herself some time to recover from the near-concussion he had given her. Then she felt her right eye narrowing as her cheek swelled. No time for games, she thought. She had to finish it. Artrond went for a stab and Sylva used it as a chance to take back the offensive. She blocked it wide, much the same way Artrond had done to her, but she did not follow with her fist. She came back with a swing that Artrond easily blocked, but she had taken control. She backed him up as aggressively as she had the first time. He grinned, perhaps hoping for another chance to block and punch. Sylva hoped he would try it, but knew better than to assume Artrond was a one-trick opponent the way she had assumed Ustin might be that morning. Instead she hacked away at Artrond in one location the way a hot-head with little training might do. He blocked three times then made to kick her as 14 anyone might do to an opponent who insisted on attacking overhead for too long. But Sylva's attack was bait. As soon as she saw his weight shift to one leg, she changed her strike pattern and went for his knee. Her blade was faster than his kick. She brought all of her strength to bear; not out of malice, but a desire to end it. She had not intended to break his leg, but he flinched with his leg when he realized where she was headed. Her practice sword cracked him on the side of the knee, and he went down. The knee hit dirt. He caught himself with his empty hand, but still held his sword in a defensive position with the other. Sylva whacked the hand that gripped his sword, and the weapon dropped. She thrust her practice blade hard at his chest knocking him onto his back and eliciting a roar of pain as he was forced to reposition his bent leg. "Killing strike accomplished," Sylva said. She stood up straight, held her sword in the position of respect and nodded to Artrond. "I'll have your pin now." Artrond reached into the vest of his training padding and flicked a metal token at Sylva. "You really are just what I told the boy." Sylva caught the pin and looked back at Artrond without a word. "A cold, foreign bitch with her arse out for the humping of a prince." Sylva's breath caught in her throat. She expected that kind of insult from Artrond. What she had not expected was Ustin to challenge the man on her behalf. CHAPTER 3 A NIGHT AT HOME The hearth room next door still held faint orange shadows. Sylva could hear the sporadic pops from the last of the evening's wood as it burned down to coals. Kwon, the family hound, lay at her feet. She could feel the weave of the rug under her feet and the heat of Kwon's hindquarter butting up against her ankle. Once in a while he would flop his long tail against the woven rug that covered the stone floor. Other than that and the quiet crackle from the other room, the house was quiet. The plaster walls of her own room glowed yellow with candle light then faded into darkness further away from her vanity where she sat inspecting her swollen eye in the mirror. Her fight with Artrond had left her with a goose egg on her cheek bone and a blackened eye. But it had not broken anything nor left her with any permanent damage, for which she was grateful. The two scars on her face and one on her neck were bad enough. Thanks to training in the sun for hours and hours a day, her skin had begun to age ahead of its time. She had been fair as a child; her mother insisted she stay indoors as much as possible. And while she had made it out of the house more often than her mother would have liked, it was typically into the seawoods, where she could swim between trees without much exposure to the sky. Since deciding to train with Endegar at a young age, she had spent most of her time in outdoor 16 practice rings going through the positions of the Pektong or Aldfen, memorizing the moves of the different hand fighting schools, sparring with any willing partner, or watching the more experienced fighters spar with each other. Now she had skin like tanned leather and three white scars to remind her of the lifestyle she had chosen. Those in addition to the tightened muscles that flattened out her feminine features in a way that would have mortified her mother. The mirror in front of her reflected some of the candle light back into the room, but she could barely see the small lump in her bed that was Eljin. She had let her son fall asleep in her room hours ago, but Sylva's exhaustion was slower to come as she got older. Not that she was old, but she didn't simply lie down and fall asleep as Eljin did-as she had at Eljin's age­- before the cares of adulthood, parenthood, war, and leadership had left her callused, stretched, and scarred with the subtlest beginnings of folds under her eyes. Endegar laughed when she pointed these things out. When she insisted he acknowledge the slow decay of her body, he balked. If she kept on too long, he would either growl or retreat into a book. She wondered how much longer it would be before the larger lump of her husband would fill the space in which Eljin curled up. She missed Endegar's laughs, eye rolls, and even his growls. She wondered if he missed her, or if he was grateful for the time away working at the prophet's behest. The stained, wooden trim and matching dressers darkened in the flickering shadows. In front of her dresser hung a blue dress Endegar had bought for her the day he announced he had to leave again. She thought it funny that after all these years, a dress was still his parting gift. Like most of the women who chose to remain warriors throughout adulthood, Sylva avoided dresses. Not because she thought she would lose 17 respect as a warrior, but because she did not fit in them the way other ladies did with their curves and unmarred skin. Most women warriors married warrior men who understood their wife's profession and thus their bodies, or so they told themselves. Endegar had bought her dresses on multiple occasions. Sylva refused to wear each in turn, and she would not wear this newest one. She wondered why her husband continued to buy them. Perhaps he thought she would enjoy wearing them alone in the house, when there was no one home to see her. She could cover the mirror and play at femininity as if she was unaware of her muscular upper arms and sinewy forearms every time she looked down. No, the dresses only made her wonder if Endegar secretly wished she had chosen an alternate to the warrior life. Perhaps when he married her he had thought she would give it up like Insek's wife, Ameera. Ameera had won a golden staff for her service to the grand master before leaving the ranks to raise Ustin and his little sister. Was Sylva selfish for not doing the same? She too had earned the golden staff long before her own son was born. Was she neglecting both her husband and her son of the woman she ought to be? Her mother would have thought so. But her mother would have disdained of her training in the sword at all, much less running off to another continent to live with a foreign people in a hidden land and taking on all of their customs. Had Sylva never been separated from her family all those years ago, she would not have known such things were possible for her. She leaned in close to the mirror and got lost in the transition of red to purple to black that embellished the side of her eye. Kwon bolted up onto his front paws and barked into the darkness away from the hearth. Startled as she was, Sylva's arms bumped the candelabras on either side of her, nearly knocking them both to the floor. 18 "Hush, Kwon," she said, tapping his hind quarter with her foot. The dog rose up on all fours and padded across the hearth room and into Eljin's abandoned room where the beast normally slept at the foot of the boy's bed. When he barked again, Sylva stood up. She was about to go swat him when she heard his body drop on the floor. Odd, she thought, to bark before curling up for bed. The fire in the hearth room was low now. The room held naught but shadows and heat. Even Kwon is off to bed, she thought, perhaps I should be too. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness beyond the light of the coals, she saw one shadow that did not belong. The shape of a cloaked person-closer to her size than most adult Fenpelas-stood in Eljin's doorway facing her from across the hearth room. An outsider in an outsider's home, and he had been hiding in her son's room. She lunged for her sword next to the bed. She could hear the stranger running across the hearth room and drew her blade even as she turned back toward the door. The stranger's black garb was lightened by candle now. The intruder looked from her to Eljin. He held a foreign blade with a single sharpened side and a subtle curve. Sylva noticed the blood on the blade. Now she understood the cause for Kwon's barking and the cause for his sudden desist. The man looked at the bed with Eljin in it and then back at her. "Eljin!" She yelled without taking her eyes off of the intruder. "Mama?" Eljin called tiredly from behind her. The sheets rustled and in a startled voice he added, "Who's that?" "Stand by the bed," she answered without looking at the boy. She could hear him scooting to the far side of the bed away from both her and the man in the doorway. "No Eljin, behind me!" 19 The man saw the same opportunity she had wanted to prevent. He darted toward Eljin leaving Sylva with limited maneuverability between the bed and the dresser and on the opposite side of the room from her son. She thrust at the assassin's side as he passed her, but he blocked it even as he made his way between the bed and the vanity. Eljin jumped back up on the bed and ran toward her screaming. Leaning over the foot board, the cloaked figure reached with his sword toward the boy. Sylva knocked it down to the bed, but now everyone was stuck. Eljin was trapped behind his mother; the assassin was leaning awkwardly across the bed with his blade on the sheets; and Sylva could not move with out letting the man's blade free. "Eljin," she whispered. She dared not look back at him. "I need you to do exactly what I say when I say it." "Yes, mama." The man started pulling his sword back between the bed and her blade. Sylva raised her blade and started toward the door. "Follow me closely, Eljin." The boy was as close as a shadow, but they only made it a step. The man moved back toward them around the foot of the bed. Sylva thrust to keep him where he was. The space between the bed and the vanity was almost as awkward for him as her own position was for her. It was slow progress getting out. Sylva made a thrust and side step. Then the man moved toward them. Another thrust kept him back. Another side step made him determined to advance before they could get out of their corner. As soon as Sylva was out from beside the bed, the man charged her. He was fast, but Sylva knocked his blade wide forcing him to step back again. She stepped toward him, leaving enough room for Eljin to escape behind her. 20 "Eljin, to your room, now!" The man thrust and Sylva went to block, but it was a feint. His next strike came fast. She had to step back, almost blocking Eljin's way again, but the boy made it passed. She could hear small bare feet on stone as he ran to obey her. Her opponent struck again and she was forced into the doorway. "Kwon!" Eljin yelled from his room. Not wanting to have her arms pinned by the threshold, Sylva backed into the hearth room. "Not now, son! Get to your grandfather!" The man picked up a candelabra as he passed the vanity and threw it at Sylva to force her back from the door and allow him to also clear the threshold. He followed her into the hearth room as she moved back. Sylva held the center between her room and Eljin's. The man attacked her on the side allowing him to step toward the hearth as he moved forward. She rotated her body, parrying the assassin's blade as he stepped around her. But when he had made it a third the way around, she went into a wild offensive of Aldfen. The fighting style threw most outsiders off balance the first time they encountered it, and the assassin was no exception. He had moved far enough around Sylva that he could not retreat to her bedroom, but he could not get the rest of the way around her either. He was forced toward the hearth. Now the assassin was cornered between the two large chairs in which she and Endegar spent their evenings together. The wall to one side held a painting of Kelkaam as seen from the cliffs to the north. On the other wall was a portrait of Eljin with his grandfather. Who would have thought that great bull of a man would take such a liking to a child. One side table held a thick book with a placeholder in it. Above the hearth sat a 21 ceremonial short sword Sylva had found in a field of kelp near her homeland. Though it had lain there for centuries, or longer, it still shone bright in whatever light it touched. "Eljin! Hurry!" "I'm there!" A loud thump of stone on stone sounded from Eljin's room. Sylva went into a strictly defensive pattern with her sword now that she knew Eljin was safe. She stepped back a little, hoping that the center of the room would give her more space to swing, but the shadow never gave her an opportunity. He lunged and she riposted again. He kicked she stepped back. He swung and she blocked. It was beginning to feel like a stalemate. She wanted to disengage­- to get enough distance that she could turn and run. This fight was now meaningless. The assassin had lost his victim. Sylva knew if she could reach the front door, the man would never leave the pillar alive. How he had gotten up here in the first place was a question that could wait. To force her to engage, the man reached farther than he should. She was able to braise his arm. He recoiled, and she took a full step toward the doorway leading into the entry hall. Instead of jumping back into the fray, the shadow also stepped back. With his left hand he took the ceremonial short sword down from the wall above the fireplace. Sylva took the opportunity to back up into hall, then she turned and ran to the front door. She unbarred it just as the shadow appeared in the doorway behind her. With no time to unlock the outside door, Sylva took the offensive first. She no longer had to worry about Eljin. It was her fight mentally now as well as physically. She thrust at the shadow before he had a chance to fully enter the room. Thrust, swing, parry, riposte. She kept him on the defensive until he stood in the doorway to the hearth room. The shadow was now encumbered by the extra weapon in his left hand. It was no good to block with in the threshold between rooms, so instead it 22 kept him off balance. She pressed her advantage while she could. Before the shadow backed fully into the hearth room where it would have enough space to use both swords, she relented and stepped back. The shadow paused, seeming to weigh his options for a split second before taking the offensive and forcing Sylva back into the entryway. She parried and riposted well enough that he remained hampered by the door jamb behind both elbows. She was in control of this fight now. She had him pinned. He could move back into the hearth room allowing her to retreat, or he could continue fighting from an untenable position. She decided she would allow him to push her just one step back into the entry way where she would have a clean swing at him. As soon as the cloaked figure stepped toward her she moved to swing, but the shadow kicked her in the stomach knocking her further back into the room than she had intended to go. The shadow came in after her and now had full advantage of two weapons. She swung at him from his left, hoping to keep him off balance with the short sword, but he was more skilled than that. He was able to block with one and riposte with the other as if the two weapons were a matched set. She was working double time now just to block and was barely able to strike back. She side stepped hoping that superior foot work would balance out the competition, but the shadow seemed better trained at combat than assassination and kept up with her. Soon it was Sylva whose back was near the threshold to the hearth room-an untenable position. Once her back was fully to the doorway, she darted backward into the hearth room. The assassin followed with his long sword extended toward her, hoping to force entry with a piercing move. Sylva saw her opportunity to disarm him. She swung at the overextended weapon, but halfway through her swing she realized her mistake. As the 23 assassin's long sword went clattering to the floor, the ceremonial blade the assassin had taken from her own wall now came up toward her open side. Sylva did not feel herself fall. She could see her body lying on the ground beneath her. The figure in black picked up his blade, hurried to her bed room to retrieve the remaining candelabrum, and rushed into Eljin's room. Sylva knew the boy would be in the fortress by now, telling his grandfather what he had seen. Again she looked down at her body on the floor. Blood had come out of her mouth and dripped into her hair. When she looked at where she felt she was in comparison, there was nothing to see-just the feeling of a self. She was dead; so why was she still here? She tried to move away from her body but found herself stuck in place. She seemed able to "look around" but not change positions. Her mother was half a world away and likely thought Sylva long dead. Now the woman would be right. Then Sylva felt herself being pulled back toward her body. It was not a physical pull; she was no longer corporeal. But the floating point from which her vision and sense of self was centered drifted down and she had no way of stopping it. Was she not really dead? The prospect seemed unlikely the way the blade was buried from hilt to heart in her side, but down she went until all turned black. Then she felt herself fall. CHAPTER 4 OLD HAT, NEW HEAD Devika opened eyes and sat up on the ground of a hearth room with the taste of blood filling the mouth. She put the arms back and rested the hands on a cold stone floor. Something strange had happened. She should be on the altar in the woods. It had been midday when they had started the ceremony. Now it was night. She had never liked awakening in someone else's sweat, even if it was her sweat now. It had not been her sweat when released from the body. That sort of thing is why she had insisted all of her sacrifices be bathed-washed and scented-before she took their bodies. But this was not the body in which she should have awakened. This woman seemed to have been murdered. She touched the moisture she could feel running from the side of her mouth. Blood, she realized when she looked at the hands. The taste made her want to spit, but she dared not make a noise yet. Two blades rested next to her: an abnormally long sword the woman must have been fighting with, and the weapon that had pierced the body. At least the woman had not soiled herself in death. That was something. She wanted to inspect this new body, but knew there was a man around the corner. She heard something wooden tip over and crash onto stone. The man was tossing the room next door. 25 Wiping the blood from the hand onto the night shirt, she stood quietly and grabbed the longer of the two blades on the floor. She had never seen a weapon like the long sword she now held in both hands. The blade was not copper or bronze, and it was twice as long as anything she had ever fought with. She wondered how to position herself. As soon as the man looked outside the room, he would see the body was gone. He might come charging out; he might become still and cautious; he might jump out a window worrying more about self preservation. Did he even know what he had done? She decided to peek into the room while he still rummaged. As she moved toward the door, she noticed her feet were callused; she could feel it against the cold, stone floor. This woman had worked too much. Her muscles were overgrown. A warrior, no doubt, as evidenced by the sword. The ceremonial blade left behind on the floor was closer to what she herself considered normal, but she could not go around killing people with that. She also noticed her right cheek felt tight. A dog lay beheaded between her and the cloaked man. He was kneeling by the far wall inspecting the area that had been covered by the bed. The bed was now tipped up against a window and a tall wooden chest had been knocked over. Her first view of the outside did not help her establish where she was. She thought about sneaking up behind the man and questioning him through torture. But there were too many questions, and assassins were unlikely to answer. Besides, she did not want to fight an accomplished opponent when she herself was new to the full range of motion this body may or may not be capable of. I need to leave here anyway, she thought. She made it most of the way across the room before the hooded man turned to face her. He only got one foot under him and his sword 26 partway out of its sheath before she ran him through. The sword was well balanced even if it was too big. The new body's overgrown muscles made it easy to cut a man down. The freshly made corpse leaned against the wall in an awkward sitting position. Noticing the man's blade, she put the sword she held down on the floor. She pulled the dead man's sword free of his hand and its sheath. The sword was slightly curved like the one Jaya had given her so long ago. This made her curious. She pushed the man's head down and pulled the cowl back to verify her suspicions. Indeed, the eye-tattoo of the gwelamin looked back at her from behind the assassin's neck. Why had Jaya wanted this woman dead? She took the man's belt off, though it took her a moment to figure out the metal latch holding it together. She replaced the sword in the scabbard and wore the belt herself, again fumbling with the contraption meant to keep the belt taut around her waist. When she tipped the bed back down, it rested unevenly with the dead man's shoulders propping up one corner. She opened the window after taking a moment to figure out the latch. The night was cool, but comfortable. The days were likely pleasant wherever she was. The air smelled slightly tropical but was devoid of salt water. Not on the ocean. She could see a great stone wall running from the bottom of the house and away from the window. She leaned out of the window and could just make out a colossal staircase running down from the front of the house. It was as if the home were built on a city wall. She closed the window and looked around the room. The bed was small and a handful of toys lay strewn about. A child's room, she realized-stranger still. She picked up the ingenious lantern. Three flames atop strings in wax. Brilliant. Back in the hearth room she left the long sword next to the ceremonial blade. Then she lit all of the wax lamps on the fireplace with the one she held. The room was finely built if small 27 for a proper hearth. Even in the dim light she could tell the masonry of the structure was exquisite with its straight, thin lines of mortar between evenly cut and shaped, smooth, gray stones. The strange furniture seemed finely crafted with fabric attached directly to the frame like built in cushions. The painting on the wall of a man and a boy startled her at first. It was more life-like than any artwork she had ever seen. The painting on the other wall was of a strange landscape. The focus of the painting was an enormous stone structure with thin brush strokes denoting a road that seemed to wind like a spiral around the pillar from a jungle floor to a city on top. The lettering at the bottom read "Kelkaam," meaning "city on a hill." An appropriate title to the strange image. She wondered why someone had painted a nonexistent place. With the set of wax lanterns leading her way she entered the doorway directly across the hearth room from the child's room. Another set of lights lay broken on the floor just outside. She assumed this would be the mother's quarters. She lit every candle in this larger bedroom and looked around. On either side of a much bigger bed stood a wooden frame made to hold a person's armor. One was empty. The other held armor that was foreign to her. Like the swords she had held that night, the metal was a silver color instead of copper or bronze. The breast plate clearly belonged to a woman. Mine, she thought. Warrior parents, and the father was out on campaign. Where was the child? She had never seen metal armor for arms and legs before. No imperial style from the seven continents used thigh plates, and never had she seen a long shirt made of chains. Where was she? An island no doubt, but one big enough that she could not smell the sea. The strange armor was well decorated like that of a commanding officer. On the floor next to the armor sat a pack with a bedroll tied to it. Doubtless it included all the accoutrements 28 of a foot soldier ready for deployment. The lack of a saddle surprised her. Certainly a woman of rank did not walk with the footmen. She wanted nothing more than to explore this room, but first she had to make sure she was alone. Certainly the ruckus the assassin and lady of the house had made fighting would have attracted any other inhabitants by now, but she had to be sure. Before leaving, a great mirror above a small table called to her to look at this new body, but she resisted for now. Carrying the set of wax and flames, she walked through the threshold leading from the family quarters and into an entryway. A torch stood at the ready by the front door of the house, and she lit it with the flames she held. She replaced the bar behind the door. Taking the torch for extra light, she opened the only other inside door with her foot and found a simple dining area next to a kitchen. She wondered when she would be hungry, but set that thought aside for now. This seemed to be the end of the residence. Six rooms including the entryway. It felt ridiculously small for such a high-standing officer. Where were the servants' quarters? Perhaps this was temporary housing for a commander overseeing the fortifications. After all the house stood on a wall. Another torch stood near the oven in the kitchen. She set the wax lanterns down on the counter so she could place the extra torch between her arm and her body. Recovering the lights, she went back to the parents' bedroom. An empty torch holder was mounted to the wall just inside the bedroom door. She placed the lit torch there and dropped the unused torch next to the armor before looking through the travel pack. A full set of clothing rested at the bottom. She was surprised by this, but perhaps it was another sign of the woman's rank. She determined she should leave this set of clothes in the pack, which she intended to take with her, and find a 29 matching set of clothes to wear now. She could not very well go wandering around in this woman's nightclothes with a large, bloody gash on one side. The furnishings around the room were foreign to her. But wherever she was, drawers were drawers and doors were doors. She opened them all. Men's clothing filled the drawers on the side of the bed with the absent armor. Women's clothing filled everything else. She wanted to wear the blue dress that hung on the front of an armoire, but it was not practical for travel. Several more pristine dresses hung inside, but eventually she found an outfit matching that of the travel pack and laid it on the bed. Now she could get to work on seeing this new body of hers. A bowl and a metal pitcher sat on a table at the foot of the bed. She washed her face as well as the blood out of her mouth and hair. Then she turned back to the table with the large mirror mounted on the wall behind. Soldier or no, this woman liked to look at herself. What woman does not, she considered. She gathered up all of the wax sticks in all of the rooms, placed them on either side of the mirror, and lit them. She could feel the heat of the many mini lanterns so close together, but wanted as much light as she could get. Never had she sat in front of a mirror that reflected so clearly and was surprised to find it was glass. She took a good look at the body she inhabited. Her right cheek was darkened from a blow to the face and a bit puffy around the eye. Not puffy enough to be from the fight that had killed the woman, though. This woman had been in a fight earlier that day as well. Such a ruffian, Devika thought. But the left side of her face revealed wonderful bone structure, though the soldier's musculature accentuated it in a brutish manner. Loose, sandy curls framed a strong face. This hair cannot decide if it is brown or blond, she thought, but the blues eyes made her exotic. The two scars that marred her face were made more pronounced by the fact that her otherwise flawless skin had been tanned 30 by the sun like a slave's. The one on her neck was even nastier. This woman had been a beauty in her youth. What on Kwel is she doing in the army, she wondered. She picked up the woman's brush and began to untangle the knots in her hair. The myriad flames began to make her hot, but she needed the light to see herself properly. She scooted the chair back from the table while she finished brushing her hair. After several minutes her hair gleamed in the light of dozens of wax lanterns and a torch. Not the best light for beauty enhancement, but it would have to do. She took off her sweaty, torn, blood-stained night shirt and gasped. Stretch marks and battle scars. It was some kind of cruel joke. Still, this body had potential. If she let the muscles soften and cut the hair down to health, a quick death would fix the rest. The area around her eyes told a more damning story, though. Early thirties. She had not been this old in years. The irony of that made her smile. Oh, my, she thought, this face has a beautiful smile. But the body was worn. It would make for a pleasing temporary condition, but she would have to sacrifice it for another. She looked at the back of her hands to confirm the age and gasped again. "Very clean for a soldier's hands," she murmured. "Impressive." She decided she had dallied long enough and began to dress in the field clothes of the soldier. Once dressed, she looked out the window of the master bedroom to see how much different the view was from this side of the house. Quite different, she found. There was no sign of the ground. Any ground. The moon was over half full, but when she looked down, she saw the bottom of the house sitting on the city wall, sitting on what looked like the face of a cliff. Beyond that she could see nothing. No lights of a city 31 below nor camp fires nor anything. Darkness. She thought about the painting in the hearth room and wondered if she could really be in such a place. A knock at the front door startled her half way out of the window. She caught herself and then her breath. "Field Marshall Sylva!" Came a voice and then three more knocks. "Are you in there?" She ran to the entry way and checked the bar at the door. It was firmly in place. The knocking paused, and she heard voices. "Send men up onto the wall with a long ladder. We should be able to break in through the boy's window that way." She had not been cautious enough. Kuruk had always said her vanity would be the death of her. She smiled at that. It had been over fifty deaths of her. But this one would be forced upon her. She had to find a way out. Back in the bedroom she noticed the belt and sheath that went with the long sword. She buckled it on and sheathed the sword that lay on the ground. The ceremonial blade she wrapped in a blue dress that hung from the woman's dresser and stuffed it into the footman's pack in the bedroom. She looked at the open window. How far down was it? Far enough that they would not catch up to her? She took the helmet off the top of the armor and dropped it out the window. She listened for a count of ten but heard nothing. Then she took the torch from the holder by the door and threw it out. She watched the flame shrink for a count of twenty before it sparked on contact with something far below and suddenly vanished. Amazing, she thought. It should be quite safe, quick, and painless to kill herself this way. In an hour she would wake up 32 free of these awful markings on the body she had taken. Surely it will take them hours to find where I have landed, by which time I will be gone. The banging on the door was a loud constant booming now. They had brought some kind of ram to bear. There was no time to put on armor, much less this foreign style. The pack would have to do. She was glad it included a change of clothes. What she had just changed into would be worthless when next she woke. She shoved the socks and boots that sat next to the bed into the pack and lifted it onto her shoulders. She used a sash belonging to "Field Marshal Sylva" to tie the hilt of the sword to its scabbard so that it would not come loose in the fall. With another sash she tied the pack to her chest and hoped it would hold. She had no idea how far she was about to drop. CHAPTER 5 ENLISTMENT Ustin slept through the banging on the door. He slept through the conversation Grand Master Elias had with his father, Insek. He slept through the rare exclamation Insek had made. But when his father stated his name simply and quietly from the door of his room, he sat bolt upright. "Yes, sir." Insek stood motionless on the threshold. The only movement Ustin could detect was a black waver along the chin of his father's silhouette as the man told him, "The grand master would like a word." Ustin slid out of bed and padded across the rug onto the stone floor of the entryway before he understood the words his father had spoken. When he found himself standing in his bedclothes with a wild shock of untied hair before the Grand Master of Kelkaam, he pieced the words together. To his astonishment, the grand master looked as bad as Ustin. The man wore the leggings of his bedclothes with boots, his green vest designating him as grand master with no shirt beneath, and his salt-streaked hair had been tied in a hurry. The difference was in the way Grand Master Elias presented himself; he was average height for a Fenpela, but he stood as though he were as tall as the misshapen pillar they lived on. His broad chest reminded Ustin of a bull, but the gray hairs that ran up his arms 34 all the way to the tops of his shoulders made Ustin think of a wolf. He had only seen these animals in the tracker's notebook his father kept. There were no wolves or bulls in the fen, but the temperate land above the northern cliffs had foreign animals that only those who left the surrounding jungle could describe: trackers, exiles, and the prince. Ustin wondered if the grand master had spent as much time outside the fen when he was a prince as his son does now. He also wondered where this man got his posture and pride. Was the ruling family simply born with a different type of spine? Ustin considered himself to be very brave and strong-out of confidence and not arrogance, or so he hoped. But the grand master towered over Ustin even though their eyes were similar heights. He imagined this man had never been intimidated by anyone in his life. Ustin glanced at his father and mimicked Insek's stance: tall, strong, and reserved. He could not imagine why the grand master would visit him in the middle of the night dressed in a combination of authoritative and bedtime clothing. "Your father tells me you won your pin today." Ustin was relieved by the warmth in the man's voice. "Yes, sir." "Ustin, son of Insek, as Grand Master of Kelkaam I commission you to the messenger corps of the guard." There was less formality in the declaration than Ustin had expected. The grand master proffered eleven parchments folded in unequal thirds and sealed with wax. "This message needs to be delivered to every checkpoint along the spiral road and then to the boat docks." "Yes, sir." Ustin took them and headed out the front door. He was amazed at the number of torches burning throughout the cavern. Every square inch of the place was lit. "Ustin," Insek called in his soft voice. 35 "Yes, sir," Ustin spun in place to face his father. "You should dress in the messenger outfit you got from Quartermaster Obil yesterday." Ustin realized he was still in his bedclothes and strode back to the house with his head down. The grand master grinned at him. His father patted him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. Insek was so subtle that his family experienced the man's emotions like a deaf and blind person experiences the weather. There was no darkening sky or distant sound of thunder. Nor was there a bright sun, much less rainbows to signal the changing moods. There was only warmth or chill; the weight of winter rain pouring down; the smell of spring blossoms; or the heat of pride that gave lift to a bird's flight. The thunder, rare as it was, vibrated through the hearts of those around him. When Ustin walked passed his father in shame, the man's touch on the boy's shoulder was like a comfortable breeze that whispered approval across his hot skin. On the way to his room, Ustin heard the grand master tell his father what a good man Ustin had become. He heard his father reply, "He is the best of men." Ustin felt the heat of pride burning his ears. He tried to squelch it as he dressed in his fine new uniform of brown, leather armor with the glowing staff of the prophet tooled into the breast. He strapped the belt that held a stock knife from the quartermaster, a large pouch to carry messages, and the sword his father had given him. The sword was much nicer than the stock swords. The sheathe was black leather with silver trim, including a peregrine-head sigil on the locket. The sword itself had the same peregrine-head on the pommel, black leather wrapping on the hilt, and cross-guards forged like open wings. The flat of the blade had patterned etchings from a foreign land. Ustin had no idea where his 36 father had gotten it. It was the sword of a tracker or soldier, not a messenger. But Insek told his son he had been saving it for him. Today Ustin had been scorched by his father's kindness. He returned to the entryway of his home. The room was empty. Grand Master Elias and his father were gone. He stood for a moment wondering what to do. He looked at the messages in his hand, placed them in the pouch at his waist, and opened the front door to leave. "Ustin." Insek, quiet as ever, had stepped into the front entryway dressed in his tracker's leathers and wearing the crimson cloak that branded him a prince's man. A gold scimitar pin held the cloak closed. The pin was a gift from Prince Endegar to any red cloak who had killed for him. Ustin did not know the story behind the pin. His father was happy to show Ustin and his little sister the new plants and animals he had added to his tracker's notebook, but Insek never talked about his military encounters. "You'll learn soon enough," was all he ever said when Ustin asked about the pin or a new scar or a cut down Insek's thigh deep enough that his father had stayed home for seven weeks instead of the usual one. Insek held a green cloak over his arm. Ustin asked why he was dressed. "There is work to do for the trackers." "But it's your week off." "Field Marshal Sylva has gone missing." "Arms Master Sylva?" Insek nodded. "There was an assassination attempt on either her or her son or the both of them. Field Marshal Sylva helped young Prince Eljin escape while fighting a black-cloaked intruder. The boy ran straight to his grandfather. When the grand master's men 37 arrived, the house was locked, the doors barred, but the only one left inside was a dead assassin. The field marshal was gone amidst a strange scene pointing to stranger circumstances, which I don't have time to describe. You must carry out your duty, and I must carry out mine." Insek handed the green cloak to Ustin. "The grand master asked that you wear this as his personal messenger. Good luck, my son." With that, Insek strode out of the house, leaving the door open behind him. Ustin clasped the green cloak together with an iron seal of Kelkaam. His long day was getting longer. His arms master had saluted him for earning first strike. Then she had broken the leg of the man who had refused to give Ustin his first strike pin. After hand delivering the pin to Ustin's home, Arms Master Sylva had given him a hug which he had wanted to return but wasn't sure how. After she left, his father had given him a blade worthy of a master swordsman. His mother had made his favorite meal of garlic fowl over rice with fruit and figs on the side. His little sister, Aavə, had doted on him all evening asking over and over to see his first strike pin, lauding Ustin as the next master tracker after Father, and talking all about how she could not wait to start training with Arms Master Sylva when she turned eight next season. His arms master's disappearance was a strange ending to an otherwise perfect day. Ustin knew he did not have time to digest the news of his mentor, so he closed the door to the home of his childhood and ran. He was a messenger in the guard now, and it was a messenger's duty to run. He ran down the middle road, a screw-shaped path drilled through the center of the stone pillar that led from the top of Kelkaam to the eighth and lowest level of the upper city. On the lowest level he ran to the edge of the pillar where three bored soldiers guarded the gate at the top of the spiral road. A man leaned against 38 the stone frame of the gate, a woman looked over the ledge of the road onto the black jungle far below, and another man stood on top of the gate to watch for any who might approach. His crossbow sat uncocked on the wall next to him. Ustin understood their boredom. Gate duty was the least desirable. No one had attacked Kelkaam directly in over forty years, and even then they had not made it passed the first gate above the jungle floor. Still, the grand master insisted that the ten gates be attended day and night all year round. When Ustin approached, the guard leaning against the stone frame stood up and gripped the hilt of his sword. He had the two stripes of a corporal pinned to his green cloak. All three of them were only a little older than Ustin. "I bring a message from the grand master himself," Ustin announced and handed the corporal one of the sealed documents which the man opened and read by torch light. The guardswoman overlooking the jungle turned to stare at Ustin instead. The man on the gate glanced down and then back at the road below. They all wore the green cloak of the grand master which they had earned by fulfilling their role as messengers and being promoted to full guard. Ustin wore a similar cloak on his first night out after earning his pin, but he did not know what he had done to earn it. As soon as the corporal finished the letter, he commanded, "Open the gate for the grand master's messenger here." As Ustin slipped through he heard the corporal tell the other two guards, "Listen up, now..." Ustin ran down the cliff road that spiraled around the outside of the great pillar of stone. His ancestors had built it over the course of the last millennium as the floor of the fen sunk almost the height of a man each year. Every century or so a new checkpoint had been created. It was past due for another one, but Grand Master Elias refused. He claimed 39 it would be a waste of time. That upset the Ongyofen who believed everything should be done as it had been in the past. After a little while Ustin saw the glow of torchlight at the back of the next gate. As he came upon the guards from uphill they spun around and drew swords. One of them called out, "Hold. Who goes there?" Ustin slowed to a walk but continued to approach the men. Nine gates above the jungle floor, these soldiers were considerably more serious about their duty than the last gate crew. "Ustin, son of Insek." Ustin held out one of the identical letters to the corporal." I carry a message from the grand master himself." The corporal sheathed his sword before taking the note and reading. The man overlooking the jungle kept his sword out and glared at Ustin. Ustin had heard that some guardsmen liked to intimidate the messengers, but this man was about as intimidating as a small dog. From the man's age, Ustin figured that he had been promoted out of the messenger ranks recently. Ustin paid him no mind. He found the practice of intimidation trite and tiresome. But the man refused to be ignored. He moved his sword slowly toward Ustin's hip and fanned out the green cloak. "I didn't get one of these until I was on the guard. Why does a messenger fresh out of training get one? You filch this out of the quartermaster's storehouse?" Ustin remained quiet. He gave the man a bored look, keeping his eyelids and facial muscles relaxed. Then he looked back at the corporal, who was still reading. The guardsman pulled back Ustin's cloak further until he could see the sword that rested on Ustin's hip. "That doesn't look like stock equipment either, boy." 40 The guard stepped forward and reached for the hilt of Ustin's weapon. Ustin put his fighting hand calmly on the hilt of his sword. He thought about the grand master's posture-the direct look in the man's eyes when he spoke. He thought about the command that the grand master had in the simple way he held himself. Ustin stood to his full height and glared at the man. The guard paused, but he would not be cowed by a messenger. "Let me see that sword, boy." The woman on top of the gate was now sitting on the ledge with a grin watching her fellow guardsman harass the messenger. Ustin paused to think of all of the quips he could make, the responses the guardsman would make back, and his retorts to those. All of the witty options resulted in his mind with inanity, so Ustin responded with a simple, "No." "Well now, that's not very polite," the guardsman stepped forward again so that his chest bumped against Ustin's arm. The man still had his sword out behind Ustin and now grabbed at Ustin's hilt with his empty hand. "Let's see that sword, boy." Ustin looked at the corporal who had finished reading the message and now stood there watching his guardsman jostle the young messenger. The woman on top of the gate grinned wider as her fellow guard tried to pry Ustin's fingers from the hilt of his sword. Ustin stood as steady as he could. The corporal raised his eyebrows as if to ask what the messenger was going to do about it. Ustin thought about the young prince running from his home while his mother fought off an attacker. He thought of his arms master missing, possibly dead. Why was the corporal just standing there? He had read the letter. He knew there was no time for this. Seeing that help was not forthcoming, Ustin decided to act. The guard was a little bigger than Ustin and had two or three more years of training. Ustin knew he would get only one chance to surprise him, so he planned it out in his head 41 before he made a move. When ready, he grabbed the man's left wrist with his own free left hand and yanked the man's arm, forcing the guard to turn slightly away. His back was partly to Ustin now. Ustin placed his other hand on the man's shoulder to force him around further. Then yanked the man's arm back while pulling his shoulders down. The guard bent over backward trying to keep his arm from breaking. Ustin kicked behind the man's legs, and the man fell onto his back. Once the guard was down, Ustin pulled the man's left arm across his chest, stepped on the man's sword hand, drew his belt knife, and held it to the man's throat. "I said ‘no.'" The woman on top of the gate went giddy with laughter. The sound reminded Ustin of his little sister. The guard on the ground sneered. Ustin stayed in position, not daring to let the man go for fear of reprisal. After a few moments the corporal said, "Stand down. Both of you. Guard, open the gate for the master tracker's son." The woman, still smiling, unlatched the gate from her perch above. Ustin stood up but kept his belt knife out until the guard he had bested sheathed his sword and leaned back against the half-wall separating the cliff road from a long drop into the jungle far below. The corporal still gave no sign of approval or dismay, but he knew Ustin. At least he knew that Ustin's father, Insek, was the master tracker. Is that why the grand master had given him a green cloak? Not likely. Kelkaam society ran on merit, with the exception of the grand master who was born a prince. So what had Ustin done to deserve such an honor? Perhaps the grand master was his dodomen-the gift-giver who had left something for him every year on his birthday starting at age eight. A dodomen could be anyone in Kelkaam who saw potential in a child and wanted to encourage them throughout their training. Most gift-givers remained anonymous, even to the child's 42 parents. Many remained anonymous forever. Ustin had asked his mother and father each time a gift appeared if they knew who his dodomen was, but they always denied any knowledge. Not that he would know if they were lying; they were both too subtle to have their secrets known by a child. His sixteenth birthday was not for another two weeks yet, and he wondered if he would receive a final gift. The sixteenth birthday present was often something meant to help with the new man or woman's service in the guard. But Ustin was already in the guard. Perhaps his early induction would mean no final gift. Or perhaps the green cloak he wore was the final gift from the man who had given him his early induction. It was beginning to feel like more of a hindrance than a help. "Messenger," the corporal said before Ustin had passed through the gate. Ustin stopped to look at the man. The corporal looked Ustin in the face. "You should have broken his wrist." Ustin experienced a variety of reactions at each gate. Some corporals opened the gate immediately. Some asked to see his first strike pin. Only one other guard taunted him-a woman this time-but the corporal at that gate called her off as soon as she had read the letter. Ustin wondered why the corporal at the ninth gate had allowed the guard to continue taunting after he knew the situation with Arms Master Sylva. She was also a field marshal and the wife of the future grand master. Her disappearance and possible murder at the hands of an assassin who was loose in Kelkaam seemed much more important to Ustin than testing the master tracker's son because he wears a green cloak as a mere messenger. Ustin hoped she was alive. He could not imagine anyone beating her in a fair fight, but that was rarely the circumstance assassins chose. She had been arms master at top ring since before he had started his formal training. She was the youngest 43 top arms master on record, and she had been the youngest arms master of any level before that. It could be enough to anger some, Ustin thought. She was the only outsider in an insular society that had kept separate from the world for most of the last seven thousand years, and she held three of the highest positions of power; top arms master, field marshal, and the wife of the prince of Kelkaam. Are there those who hate her so much that they would send an assassin after her? Ustin thought of Artrond, the arms master of fourth ring. No, he thought, he was just goading me. But then there were the Ongyofen. Certainly one of the traditionalists could have set an assassin on the foreigner, or even their own young prince; the son of a foreigner. It was no secret they had disapproved of Prince Endegar's marriage to her. Many people suspected of having ties to the Ongyofen became suddenly sick the night of the wedding and did not attend. The known members had not bothered faking ill. The Ongyofen considered even the prophet a foreigner. Ustin supposed the strange little man was a foreigner. He certainly had not been born and raised in Kelkaam. But he had proven himself a prophet over and over again. He had known at what depth the jungle floor would stop receding down from the tops of the cliffs, and now it had been ten years since any movement at the base of the stone pillar had been detected-exactly at the height the prophet had said three hundred years earlier. Still, the original group calling themselves the Ongyofen had started the closest thing to a civil war in Kelkaam's history soon after the little man had walked out of the prophet's tower. Ustin shook his head. It was too much for him to take in while running three and a half leagues on two hours of sleep. 44 When he reached the last gate, the lead guard on duty read the grand master's note and then pointed to a tunnel leading into the pillar. "You'll find water and bunks at the end of the hall." "But I need to take this last letter to the boat docks," Ustin protested his body's need for rest. "No one goes into the jungle at night. Not even for this." The head guard at the canopy gate was a sergeant, not a corporal. "We'll have a horse and breakfast ready for you at first light. Sleep now. Run later." "Yes, sir." Ustin found a long room full of beds and a barrel of clean water with a ladle. He drank as much as his stomach could bare and collapsed on the first bunk without taking off his boots or leathers. "Ustin, son of Insek." Ustin sat bolt upright. "Yes, sir." The sergeant of gate one grinned at Ustin's reflexes. "It's first light. Your mount is ready. You can eat in the saddle." Ustin nodded and walked passed the man, back down the tunnel, and into the predawn light. Gate one sat above the jungle canopy, but Ustin could hear the fen waking up and going to bed. Like a changing of the guard on a grand scale, the birds trumpeted the signal for sleepers to arise and night walkers to find shelter for the day. Ustin was so disoriented from waking, running, sleeping, and waking again all in a short period that he was not sure which command the birds were giving him. But a guard holding the reins of a dapple-gray made it clear he was to ride. With a boiled egg and as many berries as he 45 could hold in one hand and the reins in another, Ustin guided his mount through the gate and down the final stretch of the pillar road. He could both hear and feel the jungle getting closer. The birds and canopy dwellers squeaked, squawked and squealed as they gained purchase on their consciousness for the day; at the same time Ustin could feel the rising humidity as he passed by the tops of the crecopia, next to the understory trees and brush, and down to the jungle floor where the trunks of those great trees were covered in moss, fungi, shrubs, and bugs. Once off the slope of the pillar road, he prodded his horse into a canter. He had gone just a few steps when a familiar form waved him down. CHAPTER 6 THE JUNGLE Waking up on a jungle floor was as disorienting as when she had first awoken in a foreign body and place earlier that night. The moon was still out, but it had moved straight overhead. The silhouette of the cliff above assured her that she had landed where she had hoped, but the air in the humid jungle environment was stifling compared to the temperate house she had fallen from. Noises came from all around her; chirping bugs and the movement of leaves. The undergrowth she had landed in was thick, like landing in the curled hair of a giant. She could see the moon only because of a hole in the tree canopy created when she had crashed through it; at least she assumed that was why the crecopia above her had some bent branches. Some of the tree's large, waxy leaves were smothered beneath her pack. She would not have imagined such a different climate just from the change in elevation, but then she had never seen a cliff so high. It must be a third of a league, she thought. It was too dark under the canopy to search through the pack, but it was also too dark to be able to maneuver safely through the brush. She was not afraid of dying, but she could get stuck for a long time here as a constant, regenerating source of meat for predators. The Worm would tell her to find a river. What she would give for one of The Cartographer's maps now. Scheming little bastard, she thought. He is probably 47 behind this. Only one of the others could have planned to interrupt her ceremony while she herself was without body. She found a torch in a long side pocket of the pouch easily enough, but it took her quite a bit of fishing through pockets and nooks to find sparking stones. The torch lit up on the first strike. She drew her sword from its scabbard and started hacking her way through the underbrush along the base of the cliff. Now she knew why a field marshal had a footman's pack. A cavalry could never make it through all of this foliage. The torch lasted until the night sky started to give way. Dawn was still an hour off, but by the time the torch sputtered out, she could see well enough. She decided to stop hacking away at the brush and follow the cliff face instead. It felt as though it was leading her around a long curve. Just before dawn she spotted a road that came down from the cliff. She looked down at herself. Anyone who saw her now would see the bloody scrapes she had suffered from her fall and the brown and green stains over her clothes from trudging through the jungle. She decided to abandon the clothes she wore in favor of those at the bottom of her field pack. Looking around to make sure she was alone, she smiled to herself. Propriety among the bugs was unnecessary. The fresh clothes would have felt better had she not been sweating as she put them on. She balled up the used clothing, threw it further back into the woods, and emerged from the brush feeling skittish. She could see no guards or travellers on the road and decided to trust that no one would question her due to her rank; she hoped. She walked out onto the pathway below the cliff. The road chiseled out of the rock must have taken centuries to create. It was cut right out of its environment. The pathway leading away from the cliff and into the jungle was not as clean and smooth. At some point a path had been hacked through the brush 48 and trees, but the ground was not paved, just stamped down from use. Ground cover and branches intruded along the path, but the canopy of crecopia and shorter trees was uninterrupted above. She headed down the path away from the cliff in hopes of finding a river, an ocean, a way home. After a short walk down the path, she could hear the sound of horseshoes clomping on packed earth behind her. Someone was coming from the cliff road. There was only one horse. Soon the horse and rider were in sight, and she waited in the middle of the path as they approached. The rider was no more than a boy. "Ho there," she called to the rider. He pulled up short and stared at her. She could not read his expression, flickering as it was between fear, astonishment, and joy. "Arms Master Sylva?" An arms master as well as a field marshal, she thought, I am just the busy little bee. "Yes." She said it plainly and hoped she sounded natural enough. His dialect was so different, it was hard to understand. She was just glad he spoke Imperial. "You're safe!" Devika smiled and held out her arms as if to present herself; and to avoid speaking with her own accent. The boy jumped from the saddle and ran to her. It took every bit of self control not to crouch into a defensive stance. The boy was about to hug her when he seemed to remember something. He straightened, clasped his hands in front of his face, and tilted his head forward ever so slightly. "Field Marshal Sylva." The boy was perfectly dignified except for a slight curve of his lips suggesting what he had just said was somehow ironic-or impressive. This was as far as she could let it go. Her voice would cause suspicion, and she certainly did not know what the correct 49 response to his address was; especially given the boy's obvious relationship to the woman-whose body was now Devika's-which seemed both formal and personal. She hit him in the jaw, swept his legs, and hit him again in the forehead once he was down. Her first inclination was to kill him and leave his body in the brush. But if she were caught by these people, there would be no talking her way out of murder. She searched him first. His belt held a leather pouch containing a sealed note. She opened it and read. So, she thought, this is the first news of my disappearance. How convenient of me to intercept. Confident he was unconscious, she dragged his body into the brush and rode away from the cliff on his horse. CHAPTER 7 THE TIGER OF KELKAAM Ustin stood at attention in the hearth room of the prophet's tower facing the Grand Master of Kelkaam. The tower was round and each room was shaped like a third of a circle. The prophet's personal assistant sat on a cushioned stool near the only outside door. He was a young man-early twenties-and read out of a large, leather-bound tome. The prophet was in another room of the little tower attending to other guests. The odd little man always had a house full of guests, but Ustin had never seen them. He rarely saw the assistant, who was an outsider to Kelkaam; so was the prophet. The rains in Kelkaam had stopped a month ago, and it was hot outside, even in Spring. But the fire in the hearth blazed and Ustin could tell the room was fighting a chill. He had been in this room many times growing up-the prophet taught history and geography to all the children of Kelkaam-and the same sensation had struck him each time he walked into the tower; no matter how hot it was outside, the air just inside the door was cool, almost to the point of discomfort. The prophet's assistant was warmly dressed with a blanket over his legs. "Report," Grand Master Elias said as he receded into one of the prophet's red, velvet arm chairs with oak trim. Ustin noticed how the man slumped like a king on a throne. It 51 was not a full slump like a lazy child or a drunkard, but a subtle shift from the upright and straight-forward posture the man had shown the night before while calling Ustin to the guard. Instead, the man sat sideways with the weight of his body to one side as if he wanted nothing more than to lean onto the wing of the upholstered chair and fall asleep. Ustin knew how the man felt, but Ustin had taken a nap-two, really. Now he had to report his findings to a powerful and intimidating man who was still a stranger to the young messenger. He had only spoken to him for the first time the night before. Ustin was certain the grand master would think him lunatic. Ustin began reciting the events of the previous night as if reading a list of inventory from the quartermaster's warehouse. "I took the screw road to the lowest level of the upper city and started at gate ten. The guards were relaxed. The corporal and the cliff watcher were inattentive at my approach. The gate guard had her crossbow out, but it was uncocked. I delivered your message. They had nothing to report and sent me on my way. I could hear the corporal calling his guards to order as I left." Ustin continued telling the events of his run down the spiral road. He told of the altercation at gate nine, the uneventful passes through the other gates, and his rest at the canopy gate as ordered by the sergeant. The grand master stared at the fire while Ustin spoke. Ustin wondered if the man was listening. He swore he saw the Bull smirk at the mention of taking down the cliff watcher at gate nine. Now Ustin was getting close to the part he had rehearsed in his mind all the way back up the spiral road. Before Ustin could tell the grand master what he feared the man would not believe, a knock came at the door. "Hold," the grand master raised his hand and then stood. "That will be my son." 52 The prophet's assistant rose to answer, placing his codex gently on the side table while allowing the blanket to fall to the floor. He opened the squint in the door, but before he could speak, a deep voice came from the other side. "It's Endegar. Open up." The opened door revealed an imposing figure in chain mail who stood on the cement pavement of an unfamiliar city, not the cobbled streets of Kelkaam. The bleak, gray walls of the buildings behind the man had cracks in them-some large enough that the masonry could be seen beneath the plaster. An alleyway ran between two buildings toward other run down structures with missing tiles on the roofs and makeshift shelters leaning against the walls. Prince Endegar, the Tiger of Kelkaam, walked into the tower. The assistant closed the door and sat back down, replaced the blanket over his legs, and opened his codex in his lap again. Ustin had heard that the prophet's tower existed in many places at once, but he had never actually seen the door open to one of those other places. The reality of it shook him, and he began to feel fevered while his hands became clammy. He no longer wanted to be in this tower. What if the door stopped working and they all became trapped inside or could only leave the tower by going out of a door on the other side of the world? He tried to calm himself. The prophet had been using the tower for three hundred years. Ustin himself had sat through hours of instruction in the next room. But somehow seeing the truth of the tower's inconsistency made Ustin feel as though he had been tricked by a faithful friend. "What's this about?" The room seemed to shrink with every step the prince took toward his father, and Ustin felt crowded in the tiny, infinite room. This was the closest Ustin had ever been to Prince Endegar. The man loomed over his father, the grand master, 53 by almost a head, but the grand master was immovable. Tiger and Bull inspected each other with an odd mixture of familiarity and hostility. The prince wore his signature crimson cloak bound at the neck with the sigil of a gold scimitar on an iron ring. It was the same as the one Ustin's father wore. Insek was a prince's man, as were all of the trackers. Most in the fen favored a long sword, spear, or bow, but Prince Endegar kept a round shield on his back partially covering an oversized scimitar with a two-handed hilt that the large man could use with only one hand. His wavy black hair hung free below his shoulders instead of in a warrior's tail. The intimidation Ustin felt in the prince's presence was trumped only by his desire to get out of the prophet's everywhere-and-nowhere tower. Grand Master Elias spoke in a kind and concerned voice that did not match his aggressive posture: clenched fists with one foot in front of the other pointing straight at the prince. "Sylva and Eljin were attacked last night. Eljin used the passage to the palace; he said his mother had commanded him to come to me while she fought off a cloaked figure." Grand Master Elias paused, waiting for his son, Prince Endegar, to assimilate that tidbit. Ustin himself had yet to fully assimilate it. Should he tell them now what he had seen? No, he would not interrupt the only nobility Kelkaam had to continue a report he had been asked to hold. Ustin expected the prince to accept his father's empathy with a clasp of shoulders or some physical sign of filial affection. Instead the man glared at his father as if the grand master was to blame for whatever misfortune had befallen the prince's family. The grand master assumed his kingly posture-a subtle shift in his demeanor and the man seemed as tall as his son. The prince abruptly broke eye contact 54 and headed for the door. Grand Master Elias grabbed the Tiger's arm before the prince could leave the tower. The prince yanked his arm away, but turned to listen to his father. "When my men got to your house, no one answered. The door was still barred from inside. They broke in and found the assassin Eljin described lying dead in the boy's room. Sylva is missing." The prince's jaw clenched harder and harder as his father spoke until Ustin was sure the man's teeth would shatter. Now he should tell the two of them, but the prince spoke first. "Where is the assassin?" "I left everything as I found it last night." When the grand master stopped speaking, Prince Endegar headed out the door again. The prophet's assistant made no move to open it for him, but when the prince opened it himself, the cobbled plaza of Prophet's Square in Kelkaam presented itself outside. The prince ran across the plaza, passed the statue of the first prophet, and headed down a road that led to his home on the wall. Some of the tension drained out of the room behind the prince, and for the first time, Ustin was grateful to be alone with the grand master. Still, he wished to follow the prince out of the tower before the door closed again. The grand master said, "Come, Ustin. We must follow him home." With that, the grand master broke into a run. Ustin followed, noticing how the tower room grew colder away from the fire until Ustin passed through the threshold of the tower's door and was blasted by the late Spring heat and humidity of the fen. He had never been so happy to leave a place. Two guards in green livery stood at the bottom of the hill leading to the home on the wall. Two more stood at the top of the eighty stairs outside the house. These four guards 55 were older than the gate guards Ustin had seen in the night hours. All four wore green cloaks clasped together with the golden staff. Veterans, Ustin thought. They had killed for the grand master. Half of the door hung by only the top of the three hinges while the rest of the door lay splintered in the entryway-smashed by a battering ram. Ustin followed the grand master into the house and began taking inventory. Besides the door broken down by the guards, nothing seemed amiss in the front of the house. The hearth room was in disarray. A large chair faced the wall near the entrance. A footstool and side table lay strewn in the corner near the young prince's room. A wood block and a carving knife lay on the floor. The two sword hooks above the fireplace sat deserted. Grand Master Elias and the Young Prince Eljin stared at him from a portrait on the wall. The blood on the floor was in two different places. One spot had a strand of sandy hair. Someone had fallen there and been moved. The arms master's room had a unique arrangement. The drawers and cabinets were open with women's clothes strewn about here and there. Ustin thought of Arms Master Sylva and began to blush at the sight of her small clothes. The ceiling above an empty torch holder was newly blackened and the room smelled burnt. Candles crowded the table to either side of a mirror. On the bed lay a woman's night shirt. A circle of blood outlined a hole to one side of where her abdomen would have been. A hand had left five streaks of blood across the front. Arms Master Sylva had been wounded. Her pack and the helmet from her armor were gone-just the helmet. Ustin followed the grand master across the hearth room to the young prince's room. A dog's prone body lay on the floor with his head a little further apart from the shoulders than it should be and dried blood underneath. Prince Endegar knelt next to the bed 56 inspecting a crumpled corpse that still leaned against the wall with one corner of the bed propped up on him. The window was busted in and the ladder the guards had used to reach it still rested there. "This is an odd scene." The prince spoke without acknowledging Ustin and the grand master. Prince Endegar tipped the bed up toward the window and looked at the body beneath. He checked the man's wound, then his person. Footsteps sounded in the entryway and got closer. "Yes," Grand Master Elias agreed. "I believe the man was after Eljin. He probably waited in here for Sylva to put him to bed. But she put Eljin in your bed." Endegar nodded. "So he got Kwon instead," Grand Master Elias said, gesturing toward the dog. "I assume he always sleeps in here; with or without Eljin? He must have surprised the man. The man killed him and was forced to come after his victim in the other room, but had to fight Sylva to get to him." Endegar nodded. "Eljin said Sylva woke him and there was a man in the room. He swung at Eljin in bed, but the boy slipped away behind his mother. She cornered the man long enough for Eljin to run for the passage. But what happened after Eljin left? That's where it gets strange." Ustin stood just behind the grand master and listened to him speak to his son about an attack on the royal household. Both of them were calm with a tense undercurrent. Like two trackers following dangerous prey. 57 Endegar suggested, "Perhaps the assassin took down Sylva's ceremonial blade to use as a shield or a second. It may have been how he injured her by the threshold to the entryway." "So you think she survived?" Endegar growled at his father and moved past him into the hearth room. The prince's calm ebbed and the tension began to crash. Ustin sidestepped the prince to stay out of his way. The man pointed down at the two brown spots. "The blood on the floor is inconclusive." Elias remained calm. "The two spots are the perfect distance for a woman her size to have taken a blade to the side and then bleed out of her mouth at death. The night shirt suggests as much. And the hair in the blood." Ustin grew uncomfortable. He needed to complete his report, but had no desire to stand between the two men with nothing but words to protect him. "The night shirt and her absence make it implausible. Where is the body, who took off her shirt if she was dead, and who killed the man in Eljin's room?" "She took down the ceremonial blade as a shield or an off-hand weapon to fight off two assassins. The second assassin killed her after she killed the one in Eljin's room. The second assassin took at least part of the body for proof of his accomplishment and disposed of the rest. The window in your room is unlatched. The assassin could dispose of her and escape out the very same way." "Or perhaps the assassin simply jumped out the window. Jaya herself­come to avenge the ancient prophet's curse on the Six." 58 Prince Endegar marched past the grand master for the third time in a quarter glass. Back in Eljin's room he pushed the corpse's head down with his boot, revealing an eye tattooed on the back of his neck. "Yes. A gwelamin." Elias stated. "All the more reason to doubt her survival." Ustin shuddered at the mention of the immortal Assassin, ancient ruler of the continent of Yoinis, and founder of the gwelamin. He found the notion of her more disturbing than the Necromancer, the Destroyer, or even the General, Emperor of Kwel. The idea that her legacy lived on in this age through a secret society of killers was bad enough. The fact that one of them was here in the room made Ustin sick. Prince Endegar shot back at his father, "Gwelamins work alone." "Not if there is more than one target," Elias defended. Ustin did not want to be the one to tell the grand master his hypothesis was wrong right here in front of the man's arrogant son. But the longer he kept his mouth shut, the longer the two men had to take each other down the wrong path. "Why not attack together then? Why take off her shirt? Why bother to dispose of her body and not the other assassin's? The gwelamin created their fearsome reputation by leaving their victim's bodies to be found." Prince Endegar gave his father the dead-eyed stare of a warrior. Ustin had seen men stare at each other like that in the ring. He and his companions copied the adults as best they could. They had all agreed Ustin mimicked it best. But Ustin had never seen anything like this before. It was like a living corpse staring at a breathing human being in hatred. Ustin studied the look as best he could. It was a face that would come in handy. 59 "I'm sure we will find her body." Grand Master Elias withstood Prince Endegar's dead-eyed stare and continued. Ustin could not understand how even the Bull of Kelkaam could calmly ignore that look in the prince's eyes. "I sent the trackers down to the floor of the jungle to see what is underneath your bedroom window." "She is down there," Ustin blurted out. The two men looked at him. The prince still had the look of an angry corpse in his eyes, and Ustin regretted his interruption. Grand Master Elias tilted his head and seemed to remember Ustin as if remembering an old dog who could no longer hunt, or so Ustin thought. The prince's look softened back into humanity. "Ustin. What are you doing here?" "This is the personal messenger to the grand master," the grand master said, putting a hand on Ustin's shoulder. The prince looked at his father again. "He is not yet sixteen." Ustin thought he heard disapproval in the prince's voice. Did he think Ustin unworthy of the green cloak his father had given him? Why was the prince tracking his age? He had never even met the man. The prince was close to Ustin's father, and the boy's arms master was the prince's wife. But it had not occurred to Ustin until this moment that the prince would know who he is. "He earned his pin yesterday, and I enlisted him as my personal messenger last night." Prince Endegar focused all of his attention on Ustin. Ustin felt squeamish. The prince asked in a serious tone, "What did you mean just now? How do you know she is down on the jungle floor?" "I saw her. And she was alive," Ustin answered. 60 The prince seemed to pull himself up to full height by his eyebrows. "You saw her?" The grand master asked. "She hailed me as I was riding from the canopy gate to the boat docks. I dismounted and saluted her." As he spoke, Ustin gained some confidence. He reverted to the tone of a messenger giving a report. The formality acted as a shield against the two men's incredulous reactions. "She opened her arms to me, and I walked over to greet her. Then she hit me-at least three times. I lay unconscious in the brush until the trackers found me on their way to look under the window." "Are you sure it was her?" The grand master asked. "He's trained with her for eight years." The prince's voice held only minor irritation. He must have been glad to hear his wife was alive. "But why would she strike you? You were her favorite pupil." Ustin reeled at that. He knew Arms Master Sylva was fond of him as she seemed to be of all her students. For her husband to say Ustin had been her favorite-the thought overwhelmed him. All he could say in answer to the prince was, "I don't know." "Details," commanded the prince. "She was standing on the side of the path to the boat docks. She looked in excellent health and wore fresh clothes. It was obvious she had been sweating, but the only sign of work on her clothing were the fresh scrapes and stains on her boots. She looked in excellent health, though." "What was it about her that seemed in such ‘excellent health,' Messenger?" The grand master asked, the smirk plain on his face this time. 61 Ustin's assessment of her had been an impression of sorts. Now he tried to picture her as he had seen her that morning. What was different in that image from the last time he had seen her? "The bruise on her face was gone." "What bruise?" Prince Endegar asked. "She had a nice puffer on her right cheek from her duel with Artrond," the grand master answered. The prince ground his teeth again. The grand master looked back to Ustin. "Is that it? Just the healed bruise?" Ustin kept the picture of her in his mind. "She was somehow...softer. Prettier?" Prince Endegar raised his eyebrows again. The grand master grinned. "Prettier?" Ustin felt the heat in his face, but tried not to let it get in the way of his observations. He looked closer at the image in his mind. "She had lost her tan. She looked like she had never been in the sun, but she wasn't pale or sickly looking. She still had the rose cheeks of a healthy person-a fair-skinned person." Then Ustin realized, "Scars! She didn't have any scars on her face or neck." The two men looked at him hard. He wanted to shrink inside out and hide behind his own internal organs. His heart felt so big from the pounding in his chest that he was sure the rest of him could fit inside of it. Ustin got down on one knee. "I swear it, by my loyalty to the prophet and Kelkaam. The arms master had a face as fresh as if she had been newly born in her adult body." Both men looked disdainful. The grand master reached down and pulled on the collar of Ustin's leather until the messenger was back on his feet. "You were not born to kneel." 62 Ustin flushed with confusion. He had seen guards kneel before their superiors many times, but somehow he had offended the Bull and the Tiger of Kelkaam. Ustin had dreamed of having a title like his father­­- the Peregrine-but suddenly he felt like a flea. He pictured the way his father stood both humble and strong and mimicked the pose. The three men were quiet for a long time. The prince and grand master studied each other until Ustin wondered if they had some special way to communicate without sound. The grand master broke the silence first. "At least we know she's alive." "It doesn't explain much. The candles?" Prince Endegar asked. "Maybe she needed light to check the wound in her side. Between the candles and the torch this place would have been lit up like midday," the grand master hypothesized. "She didn't like torches in the house, but you could be right." The prince nodded. Then his frustration set in. "What about the mess in the room? The missing helmet? Why leave with the gwelamin's sword instead of her own? And how did she get out unnoticed? Where is she going? Why attack Ustin?" It was strange for Ustin to hear the prince use his name with familiarity. He knew his father, Insek, would die for the prince. He had come close a few times. But Ustin himself had not spoken to the prince until now and had rarely seen him before. When he had seen the man it was from a distance, and Ustin was sure the man had never noticed him. Before last night he would have said the same about the grand master. Now the two most powerful men in Kelkaam were paying him more attention than he was comfortable with. "She could have gotten out unnoticed through the window," the grand master suggested. 63 "Without a grapple or knotted rope? You insisted we smooth the walls for a hundred feet in either direction before leaving the fortress to live here." "Spikes?" "All the way down the cliff? No one has ever done that before. If she only scaled down to the road, she would have had to pass through the gates. I assume you've checked with the guards." The grand master looked at Ustin and then back at the prince. "No sightings, but we should check the walls. I've had every guard on war duty since Eljin showed up in my room last night. Ustin delivered notices to each of the ten gates and the boat docks." "Sir," Ustin interjected. He felt the heat rising again. "Messenger," the grand master responded. "My incident with Arms Master Sylva happened on the way to the boat docks. I was unconscious for the better part of an hour before the trackers found me, and the arms master took my horse and the last message. Two trackers went back to the canopy gate and took another copy of your message on horseback to the docks for me. She could have been across the river, down the river, or far into the jungle by then." "Which trackers?" asked Prince Endegar. The trackers were his men. "Aaden and Iivin, sir." The prince nodded. "They will report as soon as they can. The question remains: why did she leave?" "Endegar," the grand master said almost gently, "Since hearing that she was alive, my thoughts on the matter have ranged from logical to understandable to impossible." "Tell me." 64 "There were two assassins and she chased after the second; she believed it was an inside job and didn't feel safe in Kelkaam; she is under a spell or not herself; she got a concussion and went lunatic; after twenty years she suddenly decided to go home; she's dead and Ustin saw an imposter or a twin sister; she is a spy and the assassin's people were going to out her..." "She's not a spy!" Ustin blurted. He regretted speaking as the words tumbled out, but it was too late. The grand master and the prince looked at him in unison for the second time. Ustin resumed his humble stance. "Sorry, sirs." "Ustin is right," Prince Endegar told his father, "I'm sure that fit into the impossible category." "I am open to any and all explanations, even the impossible ones," the grand master said and then looked at Ustin. "Personal loyalties aside." Endegar puffed. "Crazy old fool. Speculations are useless." "An assassin tried to end our line." "Like that matters," the prince's voice raised. "Assassins wouldn't know..." "Endegar!" Grand Master Elias presented himself as a king. His eyes were every bit as stone cold as his son's had been earlier. The man transformed from his fatherly stance, slouching forward with empathy, and towered straight up, becoming as immovable as the pillar of rock he ruled. "She knew." The prince was silent for a moment. Then he snarled, "I'm going after her." "And what of the prophet's errands?" "Winston will understand." 65 Ustin knew the prophet's name was Winston, but had never heard anyone use it informally. To his mind it had always been a useless piece of trivia-the prophet's first name is Winston, but you must always refer to him as the "Prophet." The grand master relaxed into his fatherly pose. "You should see your son first." "Ustin, son of Insek," the prince addressed him, ignoring the grand master. Ustin stood at attention. "Sir." "Change to reds. You're coming with me." Ustin looked at the grand master who was looking at his son. "You cannot command my green cloaks while they are in my personal service," the older man said. "He was meant for me, and you know it." The intensity in the prince's voice astonished Ustin. The prince took a calming breath and continued firmly, "Release him to me." The grand master clenched his jaw the same way his son had earlier. Prince Endegar squared his shoulders and rose to his full height. Ustin stood bewildered. After another tense moment the grand master conceded, "Ustin, son of Insek, I release you from your duty as my personal messenger." Ustin felt a pang of disappointment. He had been personal messenger for the Grand Master of Kelkaam, given a green cloak his first night on duty, and commissioned for a special task. Now the man he had entrusted with his allegiance was releasing him to his son after only half a day. 66 Prince Endegar wasted no time. "Ustin, son of Insek, as Prince of Kelkaam I commission you to full guard duty with the rank of guard. You will be my personal assistant in the search for Arms Master Sylva." Ustin still stood at attention and was beginning to fear his knees would buckle. "Yes, sir." "Insek will have something to say about you taking his son on what could be a dangerous hunt." "The Peregrine will understand," Prince Endegar told his father and then looked at Ustin. Ustin felt the invisible claws of the Tiger of Kelkaam prodding at him, feeling him out, playing with his food. "It is time to discover what kind of creature you are." CHAPTER 8 STRANGERS Winston stood as far away from the prophet's tower as he could without pain. The ringing in his ears was mild, but would grow uncomfortably louder if he took one more step. Two more steps would result in so much noise, that he would crumple to the ground holding his hands to his ears and then vomit before writhing back to the comfort of his inner circle. The streets of Old Tahpella already reeked of human waste and infection. The sewers in this older district of Tahpella had been broken since the last cataclysm. No need to add my own stench, thought Winston. But he did wish the cloaked figure in front of him would turn around and speak to him. "Excuse me," Winston called for the third time. "May I ask if you have seen this person or someone with similar markings?" Each time he asked, Winston held up the sketch of a severely scar-faced man. A useless gesture since the cloaked figure refused to turn and look or even acknowledge Winston's presence. The man stood with his back turned, a slight slouch in his shoulders, and ignored Winston. Suspicious now, Winston put two fingers in his mouth and whistled the signal he and Stratos's men had agreed on. He doubted any of them were close 68 enough to hear. The cloaked figure gave no reaction to the shrill sound. Within moments Marcus trotted up from behind Winston. He had been closer than Winston expected. "I've been looking for you," said the soldier in scraps. Stratos's men preferred to dress like their neighbors near the safe house they had built. Marcus' shabby cloak concealed a shortsword and his patched shirt lay over chain mail. It was not the best disguise. Fighting men would likely know what he was, and commoners would think he looked odd with his clothing as puffed out as they were. But earlier that day Winston had seen a man with a blanket wrapped around him just under his armpits and a pillow on his back. The outfit had been tied around the man's waist with a single tattered strand of rope which held his only two possessions to his body like a snail. The blanket and pillow fell away from him above the tie, leaving his dirty chest and back exposed to any tall enough to see. So odd looks were more common than commoners in this part of town. "You found me. I cannot seem to get this person's attention and it has made me suspicious. Would you?" Marcus looked at the cloaked figure with back turned to them and shrugged. As he stepped forward, he bumped into Winston a little harder than the little man expected. Winston stumbled forward and a burst of noise erupted in his head. He arched his back violently to escape the pain he felt himself headed toward, and fell over completely, landing in the dull hum of safety. Marcus turned at the sound of Winston tumbling over rubble. "Did I knock you down?" "I am fine. Fine." Winston said. The cloaked figure stood motionless at the sounds of a man falling over the rubble of this broken section of Tahpella. 69 Marcus offered a hand, but Winston already had his feet under him again. "I am fine. You see though how this person just stands there as if they cannot hear all of this commotion? Ask that figure what their business is and if they have seen the man we are looking for." Marcus tapped the cloaked figure on the shoulder. The man startled as he turned around and took a step back. Marcus leaned away from the man and held a hand up. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to frighten you." The man looked dumbly back at Marcus. Marcus held up his own copy of the sketch for the cloaked figure to see. "Have you seen this man or someone like it?" The man in the cloak was well-wrinkled. Old for someone living on the street. Perhaps he had just come into his misfortune. He lifted two fingers to his eyes, then pointed the fingers at the picture, and tilted his head. Marcus nodded. The man shook his head. Winston shook his own head. He had grown so paranoid as to suspect a deaf beggar of mischief or danger. Winston watched as the deaf man turned to leave. Winston put his hand to his pouch and realized it was empty. "Marcus, I am out of coins. Would you give the man something. I can pay you back with interest as soon as I am in the tower again." "I think we'd best get back to your tower without delay, sir. The city guards have left the entrance, but we don't know for how long." Winston spared one more glance for the deaf man wishing he had been able to give him something before hustling toward the tower with Marcus. The walls of abandoned buildings crumbled to either side of the streets. Some times walls fell in on their homeless 70 inhabitants, adding to the putrefaction in the air. Winston knew the people living (and dying) in this quarter of the city would never improve their own circumstance. He had given up asking "why" centuries ago. The disregard of the poor had made Old Tahpella perfect for Stratos's men to set up a safe house. It also made a decent cover for the comings and goings of visitors to the prophet's tower, though no mortal being had chosen the location of that structure. But soon after Winston had joined the search for the scar-faced man, guards from the city had shown up at the tower demanding that the master of the place come out for questioning. Alexander had refused them. They tried to break down the door like thousands before them had tried for thousands of years at every prophet's tower around the world. After the pointlessness of it had set in, the guards had resolved to sit and wait for someone, anyone, to come out for food or on some other errand. Finally, after four days of being trapped outside of his home, Winston had an opportunity to get back to his tower. He had been sleeping in Stratos's safe house with Marcus and his companions. Stratos's men had surveyed the city for days, seeking out the scar-faced man who had stood Endegar up for a meeting. Three hundred years of rumors, sightings, and investigations yet Winston was no closer to finding the scar-faced men or learning their intentions than he had been the last time one of them had surfaced. Unable to travel any further than a sixth-league from his tower was a hindrance not worth complaining about. The power that had limited his movements was itself immovable. But Winston had done his part in the search, canvassing his measure of the city-the area around the prophet's tower-with questions and inquiries. He had asked beggars, whores, their patrons, soma 71 peddlers, and what few proprietors the ruined part of Tahpella still held if they had seen the man in his drawing or anyone with similar markings. But nobody had. Winston had also talked to a few people to whom he had given a gold coin-an emperor, no less-in the last two months. No one knows how they had spent it. It would have bought a year's worth of food, two pair of shoes, and plenty of clothes. The whores and soma peddlers had likely done good business with them. Or they had been robbed trying to figure out how to break it into usable sums. All of them were still wearing rags and living in Old Tahpella. He had given them another gold emperor today, knowing it would do no good. In another age Winston had thought he had the answer to these kinds of problems. But after centuries of trying everything he could think of, he knew: Riches may oscillate, but poverty never decays. He could not remember where he had first heard that quote, but he was sure it had not been spoken by the member of The Six to whom it had long been attributed. Somehow the scar-faced men knew that he was looking for them, and they eluded him with impunity. Why taunt him? Why leave a message for Endegar at Winston's tower? Winston's agents had met them in the past. His network reached every corner of Kwel-all the places he could no longer go. Some of those agents had gone missing. Others had come back with little or no information other than having seen a scar-faced man. In his tower, Winston had several drawings his agents had collected or drawn themselves of the scar-faced men they had met. Winston had once tried to reconstruct the good parts of the faces into one face to be sure it was not one of The Six troubling the returned prophet. The scars had been made too similar to give him any more of the face than what the scarred men wanted recognized. 72 Marcus slowed down in front of a dilapidated old building and whistled the same call Winston had used to find him. The call was returned and Marcus led Winston around one side of the building to an alleyway with men seemingly strewn about as if drunk or dead. They were neither. Marcus walked passed the guards to the safe house and the cleverly hidden murder holes in the walls around them. He knocked on a shabby looking door at the end of the alley in a stilted rhythm that obviously had meaning to those inside. The squint in the door opened and someone peered out. "Marcus and Winston." "It's time to get Winston back to his tower. The guards left this morning for the first time in four days." "The others aren't back from the main city yet." "Can someone else come with us? Who knows whether the guards will come back or be replaced." The squint closed again. After several moments of silence, a series of scrapes and clicks sounded on the other side of the door as the measures of security were unlocked and unlatched. The shabby door opened to reveal its true nature: a thick metal door with the old wooden one stuck to the front. Two men dressed like Marcus stepped out. They held crossbows and handed one to Marcus. "Let's go." "Let me see if it's still clear," Marcus halted around the corner from the tower. Winston nodded. The other two men stood behind him. Marcus drew his sword from under his cloak and peeked down the alley way that lead most directly to the door of the prophet's tower. "It's clear from this side. We should circle around and make sure it's clear from all points of entry. I don't want to be trapped in this alleyway." 73 "It's fine, Marcus," one of the other men said. "Let's get this done." Marcus looked at Winston. Winston shrugged. "I am not worried for myself. As long as the three of you have a way out." "Alright then," Marcus conceded. "We'll take the alley down and leave by the opposite alley once Winston is inside." The man who had spoken nodded. Marcus led them down the alleyway with his shield held high at an angle to protect against arrows or bolts from above or ahead. He held the crossbow cocked and ready in his other hand. The two men behind did the same, one walking next to Winston, the other walking backwards behind. Winston felt like a noble under parasols of steel. Winston had not figured out the structure of Stratos's military force, but it contained levels of ranks that had a circular pattern. Marcus was in charge of the strategy, but the man behind had authority to over rule Marcus. Marcus was still the strategist, so came up with another plan which the man approved. Winston assumed the third man, the biggest of the three, was the muscle. He hoped the muscle would prove unnecessary. At the end of the alley, everything looked clear, but the men kept their shields up. As they entered the clearing, they tightened their ring around Winston. Winston smirked. He could appreciate the men's caution. It was what had kept the original seventeen members of Stratos's band alive and allowed it to grow into the army it was now. But sometimes it felt ridiculous. Winston crouched and played the game. The others walked like discombobulated turtles protecting their shell-less fish friend. When they got to the door, the three soldiers created a barrier of shields surrounding Winston. The little white-haired 74 man placed his hand on the door handle and pushed inward. Before shutting the door, he turned to the three men, "Thank you." Alexander looked up from the codex he had been reading on the couch. "Elias has been by three times a day to speak to you." Winston exhaled heavily. He turned back to the door, held the latch on the squint, focused on Kelkaam, and opened the little window in the door. A messenger stood just outside the door. "Tell the grand master the prophet is back in his tower." The messenger nodded and ran off toward the fortress in Kelkaam. "Did you find him?" Alexander asked. "No," Winston walked around the couch and sat heavily in one of the armchairs by the fire. "You stayed away because of the city guard?" "Yes. What did they want." "A man matching your description is accused of murder in Tahpella. Another witness claimed this is the murderer's residence." "I see." And he did. Marcus led the other two men around to the back of the tower. As soon as they were in view of the alleyway behind they started down it, still crouching in the best formation they could given there were only three of them. Marcus' heart starting pounding. He could feel the pressure of invisible forces around him. "Stay true." "You