“Mergan”

*This is a section from Stormweaver, an unfinished manuscript.* It is reposted from a previous blog, as I drag items out of obscurity and put them all in one place.

“Mergan”

D. M. Lawson

Gereint traveled alone.  He did not consider himself a target for the Darkweaver’s mischief, and his rank as a Sword of the Kingdom sat lightly on his shoulders.  After Mergan, no man needed to be told to take caution.  That he was also Master of Mergan, if only in title, was harder.  In that place, he had seen shadows and darkness, and the false, glittering light of magic drawn for reasons he could not guess, because he already knew.  But that place had been granted to him by his King, and he would make a loyal Mastery of it, if he could, when he could.  Today, he traveled through the Torrinthi Elven forest.  He knew their loyalty was beyond question, but the simple beginning would make the rest of the journey, and perhaps the bargaining with the elves of Irret, easier, if only in his thoughts.

Swiftbrook SummerSun received him, heard news of Northaven, and was silent for a long time.  “Northaven I do not know.  I have heard it described as a city on the sea.  The Kingdom was centered there, while Perinar ruled it.  Now, its former Master reaches as far as Torrinth to cause mischief.  I have no allies in Northaven.  I cannot send elves to join combat in such a place.  I could not serve as a worthy ally there.”  He watched for Gereint’s reaction.  It pleased him that there was no fear there, yet.  “Torinth I know better.  The Darkweaver’s shadow has stayed, even if his hold on Mergan was broken and the title given to one of Vankhar’s closest allies.”  Swiftbrook nodded, acknowledging Gereint’s newest title.  “And yet even Aara is displeased, to bring fever to the Kingdom of Torrinth before the coronation bell was rung.  Here, perhaps, I can aid Torrinth.  We have stores, and when Vankhar remembers to ask they will be opened to him.”  Swiftbrook SummerSun regarded Gereint Brightshield, youngest of his House, keenly.  He could read a dozen things in this man that Silverleaf did not see, did not want to see.  He smiled, a little, at his triumph, and just a moment too long.  “For you, Gereint Brightshield, this is my gift.”

Gereint took the two flasks.  They were made of dark cloth.  He could feel, with the grain of the fabric, magic.  They were full of liquid.  “They are a rich gift in themselves, and I thank you.  What do they contain?”

“If elven magic existed as human stories claim that it does, so that a patch of ground could be sown with dust and grow abundant food, or a man given a sword and turned by its weight alone into a King fit to rule the land he is given, what these contain would be called magic.”

Gereint accepted Swiftbrook’s words.  “Silverleaf could tell me of its uses, but I travel in some haste to Irret.  Will you instruct me?”  Gereint felt Swiftbrook’s suddenly cold scrutiny like the tines of a rake. 

“I thought you were quicker than that.  Magic takes many forms.  Magic answers many uses.  Light and Dark are names, used by those who must speak of those uses.  You have seen more magic than most mortals.  You know this already.  You will take many actions, rash and considered, wise and foolish, before you, or Torrinth itself, are granted peace.  Consider carefully how you use what you have been given.”

Gereint weighed the two flasks in his hands.  They were not large.  This was not a gift for the preservation of Torrinth, or for the resolution of the troubles of a kingdom.  They were for him.  They were a help, or a hindrance, a test, perhaps a joke.  Any use of this would be marked, not only by Swiftbrook himself, but long after.  Gereint thought of the shadows over Mergan.  Carefully, to see if it could be done, he balanced those with the brilliance of Torrinth, with the Gryphon, with the net of loyalty and magic that held the center of Torrinth’s fragile Kingdom together.

“Silverleaf has taught you a little, then.”  Swiftbrook enjoyed Gereint’s discomfort. 

“Not by intent.”

“But you are dear to her, she trusts you.  You learn, whether she will teach or not.  We will see, perhaps you have learned enough.  Too many in Torrinth believe that magic works in the way their stories tell them it does.  The Stormgate will teach them many lessons.” 

Gereint sat for longer than he had intended, considering and balancing Swiftbrook’s words.

“You have a long road to travel, and I wish you swift journey, free of distraction and danger.”

Gereint went on his way with Swiftbrook’s gifts carefully hidden. 

He took a route that would keep him from the main road and the chief hindrances.  Through the Torrinthi forest, through a corner of Chandarel that was distant from the city and its small-hearted Master.  The part of Ferian he traveled through he knew slightly, from Kivan’s maps.  Here, he had no choice but to take the road that led him to the bridge across the Tiben.  The sight of that river made him cautious.  The Ferian side was guarded, and they watched him approach.

“How fare you, Gereint Brightshield?”

“Well enough.  News of Kivan Watercaller’s death has reached Torrinth.  What Vankhar of Torrinth may decide is to be done has not been told to me.”

“Then we will wait.  We keep the bridge, and I know as truth that no one, human or elven, has crossed, in either direction, since Kivan’s funeral fire.  We have seen elves mark the road on the other side, but they do not trouble us.”

“Then do not trouble them.”  Gereint looked into the water.  The day was overcast, and some of the shadows in the water were the color of Formless.  It took him a long breath to come to the realization that such a thing as a Formless could have color, and form when it chose.  “Has there been disturbance in Ferian?”

“The crops are thin, but we will not starve.  The Keeper of the Granary has begun inspections of every sack of grain that comes through Ferian.  We grumble, but we live.”

Gereint smiled, and memorized the man’s words so he could report them to Vankhar.  “As soon as Vankhar is able to send, he will want the full reports and accounts of the progress of Ferian.  Kivan deserves to be well remembered.”

The night he spent on the Ferian side of the bridge was quiet, and he wondered if anywhere else in Torrinth was prospering.  The stew he ate was made of river fish, and the bread he was given in smaller portion than his last meal here, but the caution would keep Ferian in grain for the year.  He wondered about the rest of Torrinth, preparing for the conflict that must be resolved at Northaven.  Gereint could not imagine that it would be fought in the same way as Mergan had been.  Galen would bring useful news, before such decisions were made.  He watched the light fade into evening and thought of Silverleaf.  At this distance, several days travel and safe enough indoors, it surprised him that Swiftbrook had almost accused Silverleaf of…what?  Teaching him, when it was plain fact that he had no magical talent to direct?  Teaching him the habits of thought that let him weigh the gift he had been given?  Of carelessness?  But perhaps even that had been another of Swiftbrook’s half-lessons, and Gereint had been invited to learn what he could from it.

When he crossed the bridge into Irret the next morning, he wished for the simplicity of Swiftbrook’s words.  The elves of Irret had marked the road, but the markings made no sense to him, even when he stopped to study them.  Liam Brightshield had spoiled many bright sunny days, more perfect for chasing rabbits than lessons, ensuring that Gereint knew enough of the customs of their neighbors.  Silverleaf had taught him elven words, and the shadings of meaning that could be conveyed in a spoken phrase or a misplaced pen stroke.  He looked harder.  Some of the stones had been placed to keep the road dry.  Others had been set.  The form marked a name, with another symbol.  He walked while he thought.  The uncertain sunlight picked crystalline sparks out of the rocks.  Different names, with the same symbol, not sized to indicate a House marker.  It came to him as he reached the first stand of trees that truly marked the Irret forest that they might be remembrance markers, set to remind those who came here of the price of peace.

The gate, once piled high with bones, was still being rebuilt.  There were greater dangers within Irret, what might come through the river road gate was not yet enough to merit hurry.  And perhaps the stones guarded the road, he could not tell what the purpose had been.  Gereint stood in the gateway for several breaths.  The trees were thick, and the light was indistinct.  The wall around this entrance to the Irret forest had stood for so long that even Swiftbrook had some respect for it.  It had been called the Wall of Kings.  He walked a little farther, until he was surrounded by the smell of damp leaves and rich greenery.  Here, still within sight of the gate, he had met the elves of Irret before.  They might come to consider themselves Vankhar’s allies, but Gereint trusted them less.  He had spent too much time waiting to see what they would do to him.  He imagined Silverleaf felt the same toward the elves of Kamortha, or the Darkweaver mage. 

 He looked left, and right, and forward, toward Mergan.  He tried to consider what was there now, or what might be, rather than what had been there.  He knew one path through the forest of Irret.  He did not know its borders.  It might, beyond Mergan, reach the sea, for all he knew.  Even of Mergan, and the elven city that grew around it, he knew very little.  He had seen a few of the buildings, and he had seen the creatures of its magic.  He had seen the wall, and the hordes of things that had come over that wall.  He had attended the Remembrance for those who had not returned, but he felt he might meet some of them here.  The traveler’s spring he remembered for the day of the battle with Wolfsmane and his allies.  That day they had secured a foothold in Irret, as well as Mergan.  They had made allies of the elves who remained.  And then the whole of the King’s force, body and spirit, had left Irret and Mergan.  It would be fair enough if they did not honor his claim, when he dared to speak it.

He was one man and a horse, and traveled much faster than the force of Vankhar’s army had done.  Mergan was not so distant.  Its bulk, dark against the trees even without the shadow magic that had inhabited it, made him wary.  The field between the wall and his vantage point was empty now, but his memory showed him a different scene.  He could see the outlines of Perinar’s camp, and Evan Foxmane’s, and Vankhar’s.  Right here, standing in the short grass, he could feel enough magic to remind him of the day Silverleaf had been healed of her injuries.  He remembered seeing the strands of magic like the web of a spider, that day, binding them together.  He took two steps and the feeling was gone.  He wondered if it was only his memory, or some trick played by Swiftbrook’s gift to him. Now that he was here, far removed from the familiar green leaves of the Torrinthi forest, the thought of Swiftbrook’s gift horrified him.  Magic, rendered into physical form, given to a man who had, by his own admission and the knowledge of those around him, no magical talent, was surely a trick.  Gereint knew a little about magic.  He knew that it answered with a force of its own the questions put to it, if it answered at all.  He knew that no working in magic, of any scale, was done without a price, and that that price was sometimes collected long after the effects of the working were memory.  That, at least, he knew first hand.  Before she had been swept up in the workings of the Lightweaver medallion, Silverleaf had healed him.  The effects of that little working were still his to marvel at, even now that she had forgotten, and he had been granted something as unlikely as Mergan.  He looked, from this vantage, at the city.  The Darkweaver’s tower dominated the plan, because it was tall and because it had been the focus of so much chaos.  The sweeps of tyxi were gone.  The shadows, so many and so dangerous before, were now only the shadows of the trees, and the quiet shade of a place long neglected by human eyes.  He could see, in the trees surrounding the walls, signs of elves.  He was not completely alone, here.  Memory thick as mud dragged at his boots.  He walked around the edge of the field, through areas that had held men of all the banners of Perinar, and found the road that led to, and through, the gate of Mergan.  He had been this way once, but he was not sure today if that was fact or dream.  The road was worn, slick in places with moss.  The gate which could seal Mergan from the rest of the thinking world was standing open.  He left his horse on the road and walked through the gate.  Once he passed the huge wooden panels, he found himself stopped, by two elves with spears leaving marks on his arms just at the shoulder bones. 

“Vankhar, King of Torrinth, appointed me Master of Mergan when the Darkweaver mage was defeated.  I have come to survey the city that was granted me, and to make firm understanding with Tya, leader of the Irret elves, who agreed to ally with Vankhar.  I am not armed to fight the population of Irret, and I bring no others with me.”

The two elves stared at him for ten breaths.  One of them took his spear away and hurried off.  The other stayed where he was.  Gereint looked around him.  Inside the gate, work had begun.  The stones were clean, now.  Some of the area sheltered by the walls had been planted, ordered rows of greenery.  Three areas had been set aside, each marked with a roof and no walls, and goods were piled there.  Tya, much busier and less threatening than the last time Gereint had seen her, came from behind one of these piles.  She had no weapon in her hands, but Gereint would not have moved without her invitation.

“Mergan is not yet ready to welcome its Master, but its Master is here.  Greetings, Gereint Brightshield, and peace of this place, if you can find it.”

“Many thanks for the welcome, Tya, and for your efforts.  You and the elves of Irret will be rewarded for your work.  Let me see what you have begun.”

The spear point disappeared during the exchange, and he stepped forward to let Tya lead him.  “We began at the gate, as you see.  Once we know what is here, we can begin to consider how it should be used.”

“Where shall we begin, Tya?  This place has been a mass of shadows for so long that men will not care to come here, and it may hold nothing for them if they did.”

“It holds many things.  Men have come here before, and trade with the human lands beyond Irret is not as strange as Mergan’s history might mark it.  Before it stored the twisted magic of the Darkweaver medallion, Mergan was a place of trade.  Now, perhaps, a place of history, measured in the lives of men.”  Tya pointed out one of the piles of goods.  Fabric, jewelry, the bottom section of a piece of carving, worked in scales like a fish.  A basket, open to the air, contained a small fortune in silver coinage.  The other two shelters contained similar piles.  Tya let him stare.  “The Darkweaver mage hoarded goods as an easy bait for the spirits of the men he twisted.  If Vankhar of Torrinth is King enough to keep the Darkweaver from his borders, perhaps those goods can be put to other uses.  We spoke once of the Kingdoms, and I have used that to portion out what we find.  King’s Share, Master’s Share, and a share claimed for the use of the elves of Irret.” 

Gereint pretended interest in a carved chest so Tya would not see in his face what he remembered of their discussions.  “The elves of Irret will make themselves wealthy, if all of their dealings are as carefully minded.”

Tya walked ahead of him.  “They are as carefully minded as many years of oppression can teach.  But we have thought also that eventually, Vankhar would send his Master to claim this place.  Here, we have begun to make a place where a human might live.”  A dozen stairs separated the floor of this place from the ground outside.  Columns supported a deep porch.  The doorway did not boast of a door.  The stonework, like the rest he had seen in Mergan, was very fine.  The room beyond the door had been cleaned, and furnished with some of the pieces the Irret elves had found.  A map, half unrolled on the large table, gave Gereint a focus for his wandering attention.

“A map of Irret?  I asked to see one, once, and you told me they did not exist.”

“You were not in a position to demand anything, when we met before Mergan was settled.  Now, you can command whatever you like.  I may ignore you, but you may make whatever demand strikes you.”

Gereint tried a tight smile.  He was not sure if Tya was teasing him.  “I do not think I could demand something of this place that you have not already thought to provide.  Vankhar will be pleased, when I tell him what you have begun.”

“Then I have made a beginning.”  Tya walked over to the map and unrolled it so that it covered most of the table.  “The Master of Mergan should know at least the borders of his domain.”

Gereint stood beside Tya and studied the map.  The script was elven, but he could only read some of the characters.   This was older than his training.  The Wall of Kings was carefully drawn, irregular at the top of the map, where it encountered water.  There were several lines of script beside a structure that might have been a bridge.   Roads passed through Irret.  Other gates had been allowed in the Wall of Kings.  Each gate was carefully labeled.  A river, two tributary streams.  Three circular areas, distant from Mergan, ranged across the map, set off with careful lines.  There were several places that bore a mark for water.  Two of those were in the area, slightly larger than the palm of his hand, that denoted the dark wall of Mergan.  He considered the scale of the map.  Irret was large.  Mergan, the little portion of it to which he had been assigned Mastery, was not.  When Vankhar had given him the duty, it seemed a reasonable thing.  Gereint looked at the opposite wall, which contained two doorways with curtains across them.  He looked at the chairs along the wall.  He looked at the candles, which were new.  He thought of the stores of trade goods outside, neatly divided in three portions, any one of them enough to ransom Vankhar himself.  Gereint reminded himself to breathe.  “Has the King seen this map?”

“No.”

“Have you sent him any account of what you have begun here?”

“I would not presume to your office.  I have had records kept, you can tell Vankhar what you like.”

Gereint pointed to one of the unmarked circles on the map.  “What are those?”

“Elven Circles, places of the Lady’s power, once.”

“Has Silverleaf Lightweaver seen this map, or your progress?”

“It is not my place to guess what the Lightweaver sees.”

Gereint chased a quick smile off his face when he realized Tya was serious. 

“Never forget, Gereint Brightshield, Master of Mergan, that the elves of Irret serve the Lightweaver first.”  Tya walked across the stone floor to a chest, opened it, and selected a small rolled scroll.  “She taught you what elven you know.  Perhaps with this, you can learn to read Irret script, as well.”  She left the roll on the corner of the table. 

“I will study.  You may find I am quick.  Before I had thought to claim Mergan, I was sent on the King’s order to secure the assistance of the elves in the Kingdom of Torrinth toward the defeat of Rhoven of Northaven, who has threatened to open the Stormgate.  I have seen that Mergan is not empty.  Some of what is here will be put to service.”

Tya spoke a phrase in an archaic elven Gereint did not know.  She stopped and spoke the common words.  “The Worldgate must not be opened.  That cannot happen.” 

Gereint considered.  “It will be tried.  If we are ready, and strong enough, it cannot happen.”  He made an effort to match the gravity of her words.  “My King commands that I take your assurance, or your refusal, to him.”

Tya swallowed.  “We will follow the Lightweaver.  Vankhar of Torrinth has earned her help, and we offer ours to her.  There are stores, here, there is metal and money.  There is also some peace.  Such has not been in human lifetimes.  Perhaps that, which seems so little, will be the greatest of the gifts Irret can give.  Take my words to the Lightweaver, and to your King.  Whatever they, or you, request in this, we will do.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of a meal.  Tya rolled the map up again.  Gereint sat and ate what they brought him without tasting it.  Mergan was a very small portion of Irret, and he had the resources of both to bring to Vankhar’s cause.  Tya ate with him.  She was considering him, looking for proof that he would not master this place. 

“How many men could Mergan shelter?”  The creatures and shadows he had seen were gone, but they had been many.

Tya thought about his question.  “I can show you the buildings.  I will begin to prepare some of them tomorrow, if you will find it useful.  The walls of Mergan could shelter many men.  You do not read my words.  I do not know your numbers for men.”

“Then we both have something to learn.”  Gereint fell silent, and the weight of the place began to settle on him.  The stonework was old, and almost seemed to draw the light out of the air.  When they had finished their meal, the dishes were removed, and Gereint returned to the study of the map.

               “You will learn more looking at Mergan in the sunlight.  I do not think your King knows what he has given you.”

               Gereint allowed himself to be led.  “I am sure he does not.  He hoped only to place Mergan in safer hands, after the Darkweaver was defeated and driven off.” 

               Tya pointed along the wall, near one of the places that had been planted.  “For animals.”  At right angles to this, three long buildings, almost the width of the walled area.  “For men.”  They went inside through the door at the end of the building.  Long platforms, where men might sleep.  Provision, at one end, for a fire.  It looked like Fenreach, but larger.  They walked around these buildings.  A forge.  A kitchen.  Storehouses.  Tya took him into one of these.  There was no dust.  Barrels and boxes stood upright.  They were closed, labeled in script Gereint could not read quickly.  The door, and all the boxes, carried the same symbol.

               “What is that mark?”

               “Study harder.  It preserves, keeps edible.  It is a piece of practical magic, among all the twists of Mergan.”  Tya closed this door carefully.  Gereint traced the mark, which had been burned into the wood.  They walked further, streets with houses in neat rows.  Some of them were small and plain, some were larger and richer.  There were places where many men could be seated together.  There was a hall, similar to every other Mastery in the Kingdom.  There were elves here, working in one of the storerooms.  Tya glanced at them, but did not speak.  The central room of Mergan’s hall contained a stone table, a dais at one end, and enough history in the air alone to make Gereint cough from the dust of it.  Tya took sharp notice.  “You do not like it.”

               “It is not yet mine to like.”

               “Good.  If you were comforted in this place, I would begin to worry for you.”  She led him through the room, to the square beyond it.  There was a fountain here, but it did not flow.  The stones here were worn, the passage of many creatures with heavy, insistent tread.  Across the square, beyond the fountain, was the Darkweaver’s tower.  He blinked at it.  There were buildings beyond it, past the gate.  The top of the gate supported one of the elven bridges through Mergan.  Gereint tried to retrace the path he had taken that led here, once.  The place he remembered, the windowed room with glass and ashes on the fine rugs.  The windows on this side, fine paned glass, were whole.  At this distance, he could see the door, but no sign of marks there.  “What do you see?”

               Gereint shivered.  He remembered this place differently.  Tya showed him Mergan as a town, a garrison of men little different, really, from Fenreach.  He remembered darkness and magic, not storehouses full of apples.  “I see Mergan, as it is now.  It is not as I remember it.”

               “Good.”  Tya did not explain herself.

               “How many are here?”  Gereint studied the still fountain while he waited for Tya’s answer.

               “There are twice ten elves, and myself, today, you, and your horse.  We stay near the gate, when we stay at night.  There was no life in Mergan, when the Darkweaver and his shadows departed it.  It is perhaps time to consider Mergan as a place of men again.”

               “That should mark one of the springs on the map you showed me.  The water should run.”

               “It did, at one time.  Mergan was constructed so that water could flow through it.”  Tya showed him a narrow channel, cut in the stonework at their feet.    It led toward the fountain, and away, down into the empty city.  “There are passages like this everywhere we have looked.  There are places where water could run into a building.”

               “But the spring does not run.”

               “I will show you why, because it fascinates you.”  She led them to the rim of the fountain.  The water moved a little, it was almost over the rim of its enclosure.  The water was murky and the light was poor, but they could just see a gate, with a solid guard on it.  It could be opened.  “You could.  But look at the water.”  Gereint trailed one hand through the water, and shook off the feeling of it.  Ash and slime made the water feel slick, thicker than it should and not drinkable.

               “How is there water here, if the spring is foul?”

               “We bring what we need from another spring, or from the river.  Not one of us will clear a spring so close in the shadow of the Darkweaver’s tower until there is greater need.  There is spellwork that would do it, but it has not been worth the day of effort it would take.  Perhaps this is your challenge, Master of Mergan.”  

               Gereint wasted half a scowl on Tya, who was amused at his expense.  A thought chased itself around his skull, run ragged by all the cautions he had heard, and some he had discovered for himself.  “It is true that there are not enough men here to merit leaving the guard up.”  He produced one of the flasks Swiftbrook had given him.  “I think there is a way to clear the water.  And with this, I lay my claim to the Mastery of Mergan, and to the cooperation of the elves of Irret.”

               Tya frowned at him.  “You hold no magic.”

               Gereint carefully opened the flask.  He closed his eyes to blot out the view of the Darkweaver’s tower.  He tried to form some image of Mergan as a place a man might live, enjoying the benefits of clean water and peace.  He wondered what would be accomplished if the elves of Vankhar’s kingdom came to a single purpose.  Perhaps this would be a beginning.  He had the flask half-tipped when his attention snapped from the machinations of the elves to the borders of this single pool, which he wished were full of clean water.  A narrow stream of liquid came out of the flask.  It was almost sunset,  he told himself that was the reason for the striking colors in the water.  He had been walking all day, uphill, and making point after point with Tya.  That must be why he was so tired, so ready to sit at the lip of the fountain and sleep.  He settled the flask, carefully closed, back in his pocket.  He stood up, unsteadily, and looked around for Tya.  The view of Mergan, ringed with huge trees stained in shades of sunset, held all of his attention.  When they had faded to purple, he looked back to the fountain.  In the last of the light, the metal working Tya had showed him was clearly visible.  The base of this pool was white stonework.  He saw, for a moment, a dark blur that would have been Tya’s reflection, in better light.  She would laugh at him for catching her at that.  She was still.  “It is close enough to dark that you will have to lead me back to my bed, if you will have me stay.”

Tya offered his some of the water from the cleared spring, in a wooden cup.  It was only water, but it was fresh and felt good on his tongue.  He dipped and drank a second cup, toasting Tya with it before he drained it.  For a moment, the square and its fountain seemed to sparkle, even in twilight.  The stone of the Master’s Tower glinted once, and then it was simple stone again.  Gereint shaded his eyes against the sudden gleam.  The brilliant orange of fire assaulted him when he closed his eyes, and a colorless grey rain that reminded him of his last sight of Chandarel soaked into his soul.  Suddenly, a greenish sore opened in the patch of darkness he had been staring into.  Alea Sablefox appeared there, wreathed in the bright orange light of fire.  While he watched, she caught fire and vanished.  He reached for her, would have held her as she burned.  Then, the light changed again and he could see Chandarel through Alea’s eyes.  Everything was greenish yellow, smeared with wet sheen, and it stank, in a way that Chandarel at its most foul had never done before.

               Gereint stood for a long breath in the square before the Darkweaver’s tower.  He looked for the trick, for the twist of the light that would cause him to have seen…what he had seen.  Suddenly, he was running through Mergan, down and away.  He heard Tya say his name, but nothing else.  His gear was quickly gathered.  His horse tossed and stepped, but accepted him after a brief reluctance.  He rode, without seeing where he was going, drawn out of Mergan, past the fields of battle and the bowl of the spring, past the gates of Irret and across the bridge, by knowledge that left a hollow in his being.  He left startled men swift orders, backed by his rank as a sword of the kingdom, and once with the back of his hand.  Ferian was misty.  The weather was wet, on this side of the river, and in the river water he saw too many shadows.  If a Formless caught him here, no one would hear of him again.  He fled Ferian.

               To his eyes, the King’s road was rimmed with fire.  He let his horse run in the red-orange light as long as the beast could run.  Two days of travel, with very little rest and no relief from the brilliant light and color that assaulted his eyes and jangled his senses, brought him to the gate of the hall Kert had made the center of Chandarel.  There was a man standing at that gate, but he would not have called it guarded.  The walls of the building itself, stone and wood, glowed a bilious yellow green.  Gereint dropped from his saddle and leaned for a precarious moment against his staggering horse.  He was looking past the man when he spoke.  “Where is Alea Sablefox?”

               The man blinked at him and took half a step back, putting a weak torch between the two of them.  “In there.  If she is alive, she will be the only living thing within the walls.”

               Gereint took the torch as though the man had offered it and crossed the gate of Chandarel.