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Chapter 1

On the third morning after the parting at the River Talahnon, the five companions left the green prairie, entering a land of stony soil where the grass grew low and coarse amid scraggly thickets and scattered groves of stunted trees. The weather had been fair, but on that day heavy clouds came up from the south and the wind grew chill. In the late afternoon they resolved to look for shelter.

Kit and Marshal went ahead to explore. Before Medesh, neither had much experience of horses, but in the days since, under the tutelage of Pantheren and Jakurian, their skills had grown. Near dusk Kit came galloping back with the news that they had discovered a small cave.

"There is not much room, but except for some old bones it is empty, and with luck it will stay dry a while."

They hurried to tether the horses in a thicket, hauling the gear inside as the first drops of rain began to fall.

Pantheren looked around. Large stones jutted up from the cave floor leaving little room for five people to bed down, and a damp chill pervaded the air. But at least there was no water dripping from the low ceiling—not yet—and despite the discomforts, it was true shelter, far better than sleeping outside.

He laid out his blanket in an open space near the cave mouth and sat down. Lanyon came to sit beside him.

The others found places to sleep. Marshal tossed a few rocks outside. Kit tossed away some bones. Then he lay on his back, ruefully recalling the comforts of Medesh as the rain strengthened to a steady downpour. "If we could at least make a fire," he lamented. "But there is no dry wood now, and nowhere for the smoke to go."

"I only wish we had a light," Jakurian replied. "I admit a dread of the utter darkness that is almost upon us."

No sooner had he spoken these words, than a pool of white light glimmered into existence on the concave surface of a stone at the center of the cave, illuminating rough walls and weary faces. Jakurian drew back in alarm.

"Do not be afraid!" Kit said, sitting up with a laugh. "For Lanyon, the spell of light is an easy thing."

She answered in a trembling voice, "This is not my spell."

Pantheren heard this and started to his feet, thinking Édan had come again. But then Marshal cried out in surprise: "There is a ghost here! I can feel its chill."

"If that's so, it's a sorcerer's ghost," Pantheren said, gripping his sword, though little good it could do him.

"There it is!" Kit cried.

Pantheren saw it too, just an arm's reach away: a tall, glimmering, half-seen figure standing beside the luminous stone. Its shape suggested a proud warrior in battle armor. Its dark eyes appeared to glare at Lanyon.

Pantheren glanced down at her. She crouched against the cave wall, but met the ghost's glare with defiant eyes. Then she exclaimed, "You know what happened that night? You knew what he intended?" Moments later, fury overcame her. "I will not tell you anything! Leave me and do not come again! Be gone!"

Obedient to this command, the ghost vanished, though the pool of light remained. Lanyon huddled against the wall, looking stunned.

Pantheren crouched beside her. "Speak. Are you all right?"

"I did not know a ghost could work spells."

"You sent it away," Marshal said in admiration.

"I knew him in life."

"Knew who?" Jakurian asked. "This ghost?"

"Yes. He was once Renthian of Samokea, who was a skilled sorcerer, and also counselor to Édan. He was in the Citadel that night Siddél came."

Pantheren's suspicion stirred. "Was this ghost sent by Édan?"

"No. Renthian believes Édan to be dead. He came because he sensed the talisman—he knows what it is—but he did not expect to find me."

"So this Renthian," Jakurian asked, "he knew what Édan had done? It was not a secret after all?"

"He suspected—they must have discussed it—but he didn't know it as a certainty, not until now." She rubbed at her eyes and sighed. "I am sorry. I let anger rule me. I should have questioned him more."

"He put the blame on you, didn't he?" Pantheren asked. "That's what men will do when a chieftain fails them. They would rather have the unblemished legend than the truth."

Lanyon admitted it was so. "He decided I must have stolen the talisman and fled, leaving Édan helpless when Siddél came. So it is my fault his kin are no more."

Kit said, "It is insufferable to be so accused!"

"It doesn't matter," Lanyon assured him. "Renthian is a ghost and he has no power over me."

"But why is he here?" Jakurian wanted to know. "So very far from the Citadel of the Snow Chanter?"

She shrugged. "He sensed the talisman and he came. That is surely how Édan found us too—but I cannot hide it."

"Will he come back?" Marshal wondered.

"I do not know."

Pantheren again took his seat, while Jakurian and Marshal put together another cold meal. The lack of a fire was a trial, but the light remained steady, so at least they were not oppressed by darkness.

◆

The dawn brought an east wind that drove away the mist and chased the clouds up to a great height. All the peaks of the Tiyat-kel glistened with a bright cap of new snow.

They started north again. They'd been riding for a while when Marshal asked, "How far is it from Habaddon to Ohtangia? Is it farther than the distance we have journeyed through Samokea?"

"Half again as far," Pantheren told him. "Like Samokea, Ohtangia is a vast land, and requires many days to traverse."

"Have you been there?" Kit asked him.

"I have. I journeyed there once as a young man, and then went on south until I reached the walled city of Hallah—and that was many times farther still."

Marshal shook his head. "I confess I did not know the Wild was so vast. Each day as we go north I keep thinking we must soon reach the edge of all things, but always there is more."

"Far more," Pantheren agreed, "though what lies to the north is mostly mystery."

"Mystery?" Kit asked. "What mystery is there? We know Siddél's home may be found in the north, this ‘Storm Lair.' Is it not so? Though perhaps we don't know precisely where it lies?"

"No one knows," Pantheren said. "None among the people have ever seen it."

"Then how do we know there is such a place?"

"The Inyomere know of it," Lanyon told him.

"Then the Snow Chanter has told you how to find it?"

"Oh no. The Snow Chanter is bound to her place and has never ventured from it. But there are many among the petty Inyomere who wander far. It's my hope that before long we will find some willing to speak with us."

"Other than the Snow Chanter, I have never met an Inyomere willing to speak," Jakurian said.

"You have not ventured in Ohtangia," Pantheren told him. "There the Inyomere lived long in the company of Clan Kyramanthes, and many are interested in the doings of the people. Let us hope we find some like that on the path ahead."

They saw no Inyomere, but as they continued north into the afternoon, the trees grew taller and more abundant. Before long they found themselves riding through a forest, though it was not a lovely place. Many of the trees looked broken and worn, heavy with dead branches, some half fallen over. The only trees that flourished were a kind of thorn tree none of them had seen before.

These thorn trees were not tall, but they had thick trunks and bark like pebbly armor, spiked with long black thorns. Nothing grew beneath their wide branches, though tangled weeds thrived everywhere else. The horses were soon made fretful by the stickers that clung to their legs, and by a reek of decay that became more and more common as they went along.

Hidden among the weeds and disguised in the leaf-litter beneath the thorn trees lay the rotting remains of arowl. Many had been reduced to weathered bone. But others were fresh, still with shreds of skin and flesh, though all were chewed and broken.

Jakurian spoke in a hushed voice, "There is nothing left in this land but arowl."

Pantheren also spoke softly, "It's strange we have not heard the howling of any pack, but perhaps they were called away to Medesh and died there. I pray it is so."

No one wanted to linger, so they pushed on until the afternoon grew old. Then they found a hollow on the side of a hill and stopped a while to rest the horses, planning to ride on past nightfall in the hope of escaping that unhappy land.

Lanyon put together another cold supper, this time of dried fish and the last, stale remnants of the bread they had brought from Medesh.

The droning of flies surrounded them as they ate, calling attention to the pervasive odor of death. Marshal shook his head in puzzlement. "I don't understand it. This lands feels . . . oppressed . . . as if by silence. Or something like silence. And yet the birds sing and the flies buzz. Never have I seen so many flies!"

"This is a soulless place," Lanyon agreed. "It reminds me of the ruins of the Citadel, though that place was barren and the Inyomere were gone."

"I wonder if that's it," Marshal mused. "Maybe the Inyomere are gone from here. Though this forest is lush and green, it still feels unloved and unkempt."

"It surely does," Lanyon agreed. "And yet I wonder if there's a second cause of our discontent. We've grown so quiet and dull since we've been without Bennek."

This inspired a dramatic sigh from Kit. "It's true. I do truly miss him. And I feel it's my duty to take over the task of asking you awkward questions, Lanyon, so we might feel more ourselves again."

Marshal smiled—for the first time in days, or so it seemed. "Sadly, my cousin, we know you are too well-mannered for such a role."

Jakurian laughed. "I regret there was not time for me to know your brother better . . . though I confess my feelings for him are not all fond. It's a hard thing to know that Pantheren has allowed me here only as a poor substitute for Bennek."

This ignited a rare, playful glint in Pantheren's eyes. "Find me the arowl before they may be seen or heard, and then confound them. When you can do that, perhaps I will put you first again."

Jakurian spread his hands helplessly.

Kit shook his head. "I fear we are all doomed to be bested."

"This night we are doomed to go without sleep," Pantheren answered. "Come. Darkness is not far off. Let us make ready to go."

◆

Nightfall showed them that the forest was haunted not just by the scent of death, but also by its memory. Darkness revealed ghosts, come to watch them pass. The specters appeared amid the deepest shadows, each with a stern face and a cold awareness in its pale gaze. They lingered only a few seconds before disappearing again, but always there was another farther along, lurking beneath the most ancient trees.

The ghost of Renthian of Samokea came again to watch them, and later the ghost of another Samokeän captain Lanyon had known long ago. After that, she pulled her hood over her head to hide her face and refused to look about anymore.

The horses went quietly, one after another in the leaf-filtered starlight. After a time, a breeze stirred. For a few seconds, branches rustled and murmured. Then the breeze died away and the forest grew still again.

But now a new sound came to them: the quick, crunching, twig-snapping beat of tiny feet speeding through the leaf litter. A moment later, a knee-high, man-like silhouette burst into the starlight.

"It's an Inyomere!" Kit cried.

"Wait, sir!" Lanyon called to it. "Stay but a moment."

It froze at the sound of her voice. A tiny thing, gazing up at her with luminous green eyes. Its garment was of autumn leaves, and its fingers were long, gray, and kinked, like roots that have been torn from the soil. "The hunters come, Blessed One," it said, in a voice low and crisp like rustling leaves. "They seek to kill us. You must flee!" It darted beneath the belly of Jakurian's horse and disappeared into the night.

Lanyon yanked off her hood and turned her head this way and that. Then she gasped. "They are bespelled! They wear the Hunter's Veil! Tirvallian! Part these veils now!"

Abruptly, the forest awoke with the rustle and crunch of heavy feet running on fallen leaves. Figures darted between the trees. Here, starlight illumined the hideous face of a were-wolf. There, the light glinted off rows of needle-sharp teeth.

Kit and Marshal pulled their spears. Pantheren and Jakurian unsheathed their swords. But Lanyon stood up in her stirrups and cried out to them, "No, wait! These are not arowl. They are people. Do not hurt them! We do not war against the people!"

"I see no people!" Kit answered her. "They are only beasts!"

With a whoosh and a whir, a flurry of darts flew at them. Jakurian urged his horse forward, as if he could block the darts from striking Lanyon. She cried out the name of the fire spell. Darts burst into flame, falling like burning stars to the ground. But some found their targets.

Kit plucked at a dart that had pierced his coat to prick his right arm, which fell numb and useless at his side. His spear tumbled from his hand.

Darts struck Pantheren in his hand, his thigh, his chest. He clutched at the saddle, to keep from falling to the ground. "Run, Lanyon," he croaked, his voice almost gone. "Ride! Jakurian, defend her."

She pulled her horse around in a full circle, shouting, "Please hear me! We are not your enemies."

Figures swarmed from the darkness. From atop his horse, Jakurian looked down on a sea of arowl faces, hideous in the starlight. Arowl! Hunting under the protection of an enchantment. He seized the bridle of Lanyon's mare.

She saw what he meant to do and cried out, "Jakurian, no!"

But Pantheren and Kit were already disabled and Marshal must soon be overwhelmed.

Never before had Jakurian abandoned living men to the rampages of arowl. The thought of doing so now filled him with horror. But his first duty was to protect Lanyon, and the talisman she carried. With a fierce cry, he urged both their horses into headlong flight.

"Lanyon is away!" Marshal shouted. But her warning stayed with him. These are people. Indeed, all these seeming-arowl had the hands of people. All of them spoke with the voices of people as they called tactics to one another, and yet they had the faces and hides of arowl.

Doubt restrained him. When he saw a small beast fighting to pull Pantheren from his horse, he used only the shaft of his spear to whack it on the back. The creature had a were-wolf's head, but the hands it used to seize Pantheren were a man's hands. The shout it uttered when Marshal's blow struck was a man's shout.

The people did not war against the people.

Marshal knocked another in the chest. He turned his horse in a tight circle, driving two more of the creatures back from Kit, but in the moment his attention was away, five swarmed on Pantheren.

Marshal shouted and drove his horse into their midst. He seized one by the coarse gray, wolfish hair of its head, intending to throw it back, but to his astonishment, its scalp slipped off in his hand, leaving him holding a hollow mask made of arowl hide, while a lithe, smooth-skinned youth no older than himself spun away with a shout. The other beasts paid no heed as they wrestled Pantheren to the ground.

Fury overcame Marshal. "Stop this now!" he shouted. He spun his horse around again to see another pack of beasts swarming Kit. "Masks and skins and bestial enchantment do not make you arowl!" He flung the hideous scalp to the ground. "Stand off! Remember yourselves! The people do not draw weapons against one another."

They did not heed him.

Marshal saw them force Kit to the ground. They spirited away his horse and Pantheren's.

Pantheren lay bound in the mud, a spear point resting against his throat.

"If you kill him," Marshal warned, "we are all doomed."

The beast people encircled him. He counted eighteen. Three stood with bows drawn, their arrows aimed at his heart. All were masked as arowl, except for a slender figure who wore the silvery face of an Inyomere of the stream.

One, robed in black fur, stepped forward. He was not as tall as many of the others, but his mask was more hideous: a leering black-furred face with huge protruding eyes, a broad nose that looked decayed, and a wide mouth with dog lips sagging around sharp white teeth.

What creature Siddél had twisted to create such a beast, Marshal could not guess. How these people had contrived to animate such a mask stood as an equal mystery, for the eyes appeared full of life, the nostrils flared, and spit flecked the black lips.

It was a disguise to make the bravest man falter, yet its wearer was done with it. Pale hands reached up to lift the mask away. The life went out of it. It transformed into a hollow skin with painted eyes. A woman stood revealed.

Marshal had never seen another like her. In the glimmering starlight she seemed to glow, so pale was her skin. And she was terribly thin, almost wraithlike. Her hair, coiled in a tight braid behind her neck, seemed white in the faint light. Her eyes appeared hollow. In other circumstance he might have mistaken her for a ghost. Even so, he found her ethereally beautiful.

She smiled at him, but it was a hungry smile. "Dismount," she told him.

Marshal drew himself up a little straighter. "The people do not war against the people," he reminded her. Secretly, he hoped he had not struck her with his spear.

"Perhaps you are people, and perhaps you are not," she said. "Dismount, and we shall find out."

"Dismount, you fool," Pantheren croaked in a hoarse whisper. "Or they will kill you."

"Listen to your father," the woman advised.

Marshal had not the chance. Impatience overcame one of her companions. A dart hissed, striking him in the neck, biting deep. Instantly, he felt himself adrift, his breath stolen away as he sank irresistibly into the frigid black waters of a midnight lake. Gazing back at the world from beneath the surface, he saw the pale woman leaning over the waters as if searching for something. Then she went away, and darkness closed over the bright faces of the stars.

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