CHAPTER ONE

EMPRESS OF THE RED HALL

ANNE STOOD on the bow of the royal ferry and stared up at the walls and towers of Eslen, wondering at how alien they seemed. She had lived all but one of her seventeen winters on that hill, within that fortress. The island’s forests and greens had been her playground. Shouldn’t she feel like she was coming home?

But she didn’t. Not in the least.

When they reached the slip and the boat was secure, her horse, Faster, was brought around. She mounted it for the procession through the city but paused at the great Fastness gate, frowning at the massive stone of its construction.

“Majesty?” Cauth asked. “Is something the matter?”

Her pulse was thumping strangely in her neck, and she couldn’t seem to draw a deep breath.

“Wait,” she said. “Just wait a moment.”

She turned and looked back the way they had come, across the slow flood of the Dew River and the green fields of Newland beyond, to the malends on the distant dike turning against the blue sky. She knew that all she wanted to do was cross that water again and ride, keep riding until she was so far away that no one had ever heard of Eslen or Crotheny or Anne Dare.

Instead she turned, set her shoulders, and rode through the portal.

Crowds had collected along the Rixplaf Way, and each square was full of merriment, as if it were a holiday. They chanted her name and threw flowers before her horse, and she tried to seem pleased and smile for them, when it was the best she could do not to bolt Faster through the throngs at a dead run.

When she had returned from exile the previous spring, almost no one had recognized who she was. At the time she had been surprised and a little chagrined that so few people knew what their princess looked like. Now that anonymity was another precious thing forever lost to her.

By the time they reached the castle itself, Anne wanted nothing more than to hide in her rooms for a time, but she knew there wouldn’t be any peace there; that was where Austra would be, and she didn’t quite feel like facing her oldest friend. Better to confront her counselors and find out just what was being blamed on her absence this day.

“I’ll give an audience in the Hall of Doves,” she told Cauth. “I’d like to see Duke Fail de Liery, Duke Artwair, John Waite, Lord Bishop, and Marhgreft Sighbrand. Have them there in half a bell, would you?”

“It’s done, Majesty,” the Sefry replied.

John Waite, of course, was already waiting in the Hall of Doves when Anne arrived there. Plump, balding, pleasant of expression, John had been her father’s valet. He’d been imprisoned and apparently forgotten by Robert, which was a better fate than most of the late king’s staff had received.

“Majesty,” he said, bowing as she entered the room.

“Hello, John,” she replied.

“I understand you wanted to speak with me, Majesty.”

She nodded. “Yes, John. I was going to wait until everyone was here, but we may have something of a delay while they’re all found.” She took a seat in what once had been her father’s armchair, a straight-backed affair with arms carved to resemble feathered pinions. Made of white ash, it fit well in the white marble and abundant light of the Hall of Doves.

“My father trusted you more than anyone, John, and I know the two of you were close.”

“That’s very kind of you to say, Your Majesty. I miss your father a great deal.”

“I do, too,” she said. “I wish he were in this chair right now, not me. But it is me, as that’s how it is.”

“It’s what your father wanted.”

Anne almost laughed. “I’m sure he imagined Fastia here, not me. No one imagined it would be me here, I’m sure. Was I horrible to you, John?”

He smiled indulgently. “Just a bit of a prankster,” he said. “But I always knew you had a good heart.”

“I was horrible,” Anne contradicted. “And I may be horrible yet; I’m still learning. But I hope you will consider being gardoald and keybearer of the house Dare.”

The old man’s eyes widened. “Majesty—I—I haven’t the blood for that position.”

“You will when I create you lord,” she replied.

John reddened. “Your Highness, I’ve no idea what to say.”

“Say yes. You won’t thrust a knife in my back, John. I need men like that.” He bowed deeply. “I would be most honored,” he replied.

“Good. We’ll discuss particulars later, but the first thing I’d like you to do is see to finding me some ladies-in-waiting and a female head of staff. Someone absolutely trustworthy, you understand? Someone whom I don’t have to worry about and who will not bother me much.” John bowed again, but when he straightened, he had a puzzled expression. “Your young maid, Austra. I should consider her for head of staff.”

“No, I have other plans for her.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he nodded. “As you wish.”

“Thank you, John. Please arrange for some wine to be brought and then rejoin me here. As my gardoald, these discussions will concern you.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

She heard footsteps approaching and looked up in time to see Artwair come in.

“Well, Cousin,” she said. “Here I am, just as you wished.”

“I am pleased,” he said. “We need our empress here, Anne.”

“I’m here,” she replied. “When the others arrive, we’ll discuss those matters you deem most urgent.”

“Who else is coming?”

“John will be back. I’m making him gardoald.”

“That’s not a bad choice,” Artwair said. “You’ll have to title him.”

“I know. Can you think of a good one?”

Artwair frowned. “Haul Atref, I should think. One of Robert’s puppets slaughtered the former Lord Haul and all his kin. The castle is garrisoned but masterless.”

“Then I shall create him Lord Haul,” Anne said.

“Well, here’s my grandniece, back from her adventures,” a lowtimbred voice said.

“Grannuncle Fail,” Anne said, allowing him to gather her in a hug. “I trust all went well at Copenwis.”

“As well as it could. I still don’t like it, but I imagine they’re in Hansa by now.”

“Mother will be fine,” Anne said. She heard more footsteps and saw that the others had arrived.

“My lords,” she said. “Let’s begin, shall we? Tell me what I need to know. Duke of Haundwarpen, you first.”

Artwair drew himself up and clasped his wooden hand with his living one. “Hansa continues to occupy Copenwis, and they are massing ships there and in Saltmark. My guess is that they will disembark ground forces for a march on Eslen and send their navy against Liery. There are also reports of an army gathering at Schildu, on the Dew River. Their intention there is probably to cut off our river trade, then use the river to move down into Newland.”

“A familiar strategy,” Anne said. “That’s like what we did.”

“Precisely, Majesty.”

“Do they have the men to come at us from all of these directions and deal with the Lierish fleet as well?” Sir Fail cleared his throat. “If I may?”

“Spell on,” she said.

“They haven’t the ships to take Liery, not alone. But there is rumor that a fleet is assembling at z’Espino.

Moreover, it is nearly certain that Rakh Fadh is allied with Hansa, although there’s no way of knowing how many ships they have or will send.”

“What about our allies? Or do we have any?”

“Riders tell us that an embassy from Virgenya will arrive soon, probably sometime tomorrow.”

“An embassy? I’m their empress. I don’t want an embassy; I want the ships and troops we asked for three months ago.”

“You may take that up with the Virgenyans,” Artwair said. “Of all of the parts of the empire, they are the most independent, and they like to make a show of it.”

“There will be a show,” Anne muttered more or less under her breath. Then she turned to the other two men.

“Lord Bishop, Marhgreft Sighbrand, I trust you are well.”

“Very well, Your Highness,” Bishop replied.

“Lord Bishop, we made you master of the treasury, did we not?”

“You did, Majesty.”

“What is the state of it?”

Lord Bishop’s lips tightened. “Robert did a bit of looting before he fled the city, it seems.”

“Can we pay and supply our troops?”

“For the time being. But if we have another levy—even a modest one—it will make our belts very tight.”

“Even with the confiscated Church properties?”

“Even with that, yes,” he replied.

“I see. Well, we need to find some more silver, don’t we?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

She turned to Sighbrand. “Marhgreft?”

“Majesty.”

“The duke tells us that troops are gathering at Schildu. That is very near your greffy of Dhaerath, isn’t it?”

“It is. Very near.”

“I called you here to ask you to be my prime minister. I’ve been advised you would make a good one.” Sighbrand’s lips twitched. “I’m honored, Majesty.”

“Yet I wonder if your heart would really be in the job when your lands are in danger, so I will give you a choice instead. You may serve here as my adviser and defender of the keep, or you can take command of the armies of the east and defend us from there.”

The old warrior’s eyes brightened a bit. “I am a man more suited to action, Your Majesty, than arranging court appearances and the like.”

“So I thought. Very well. You will answer to Artwair, who is supreme general of my forces, and you will answer to me. Beyond that, you have leave to organize the armies of the east as you see fit to guard our borders. I will have your title and powers drafted before this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Majesty. I will not fail you.”

“I don’t expect you to,” she replied. “I don’t expect any of you to.” She settled her hands on the tops of her thighs.

“Now,” she said. “All of you. Can this war be stopped?”

“You did appoint an embassy,” Artwair pointed out.

“Yes, based on the recommendation of the Comven and on an idea of my own. But you are not the Comven; you are men I respect. I’m not a general. I don’t know much about war. So tell me what to think.”

“There will be war,” Artwair said. “They have come too far to turn back, and Marcomir is old. He has the backing of the Church. This is his chance, and he knows it.”

“The rest of you agree?”

The others nodded their heads yes.

“Very well, then. It seems foolish to give them any more time to make things as they want them. We will take the war to them, gentlemen. Where shall we begin?”

Artwair frowned. “You mean now? But Your Majesty—”

“I won’t wait until we’re completely hemmed in,” Anne said. “You say there are ships at Copenwis?

Copenwis is our city, our port. Let those ships become ours or burn.”

“Now, that’s her de Liery blood talking,” Duke Fail said. “I’ve been saying that for months.”

“I’m settled on it,” Anne said. “Make preparations. I would like to march within the nineday.”

“Surely you aren’t planning to go,” Artwair said. “You promised you were done with adventures.”

“This isn’t an adventure. This is the war you’ve been asking me to fight. And Copenwis isn’t so very far from Eslen. I can return at will.”

Artwair looked unconvinced.

“You need me, Duke. I promise you. You need my gifts.”

He bowed stiffly. “As you say, Majesty.”

She rose. “Tomorrow, gentlemen.”

Then she did go back to her rooms.

Just as she expected, Austra was there to fling herself into her arms and kiss her cheeks.

Austra was a year younger than Anne, a pretty young woman with hair the color of sun on grain. She had forgotten how good, how natural it felt to be with her; she felt her intentions falter a bit.

“It’s been so strange here without you,” Austra said. “In our old rooms, all alone.”

“How is your leg?”

“Mended, almost. And things went well at the monastery?”

“Well enough,” Anne replied.

“And is everyone, ah, well?”

“Cazio is fine,” Anne replied. “You’ll see him soon, although not as soon as you wish, I’m sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t come back with me. I sent him to Dunmrogh.”

Austra face seemed to sag. “What?” she said faintly. “Dunmrogh?”

“I still don’t fully trust the heirs to that place. They might yet give the Church the dark fane there, and I can’t risk that. I need someone I can rely upon watching the place.”

“But he’s your bodyguard.”

“I have other bodyguards now, Austra. And you cannot tell me you wouldn’t be happier with Cazio safer.”

“Happier, yes, but in Dunmrogh? For how long?”

“He doesn’t know it yet, but I’m giving him Dunmrogh. I’m making him greft there and sending him the men he might need to hold that title should what remains of Roderick’s family object.”

“He won’t be back, then?”

Anne took Austra’s hand. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You’re going there, too. You have my blessing to marry if you wish.”

“What?” Austra’s eyes were like plates, and her throat was working oddly.

“You once told me that although I felt we were like sisters, we never would be, not really, because you’re a servant and I’m—well, now I’m queen, aren’t I? And if something were to happen to me, what would become of you? As a girl I always assumed you would be fine, but I know better than that now.

Well, under the law, there’s no way for me to give a woman a title. But I can give Cazio one, and he can make you an honest woman, and your children will be nobles of Crotheny.”

“But that means you’re sending me away. I won’t be your maid anymore.”

“That’s true,” Anne said.

“I don’t want that,” Austra said. “I mean, it would be wonderful to marry and be a greffess and that sort of thing, but you can’t send me away!”

“You’ll thank me one day,” Anne said.

“Give Cazio a castle in Newland or make him ward of some part of the city. Then we can all stay together!”

“Now you’re wanting the dress and the cloth it was made from,” Anne said. “No. You will go to Dunmrogh. I’ve said it.”

Austra’s eyes were full of tears. “What have I done? Why would you do this? Anne, we’ve always been together.”

“As children. We aren’t children anymore. Austra, this is for the best. You’ll see. Be ready to leave by tomorrow.”

She left Austra crying, went into her chamber, and shut the door.

The next morning she took her breakfast in the solar, accompanied by her new ladies-in-waiting. She’d put Austra on the road that morning, with Sir Walis of Pale and fifty men-at-arms. She hadn’t gone down to see her off, fearing her resolve would weaken, and she reckoned they were a league away by now.

She noticed that all the girls were looking at her and none were eating. “Ah,” she said. She picked up a piece of bread and spread some butter and marmalade on it. “There. The queen is eating.” Lize de Neivless, one of the few Anne knew by name, giggled. A Lierish girl of fifteen, she had dark, curly hair and a stubby little nose.

“Thank you, Majesty. I was so hungry.”

“In future,” Anne said, “don’t wait for me to start. I won’t have you beheaded, I promise. Not for that, at least.”

That drew a few more giggles.

Lize tucked into the rolls and cheese, and so did the others.

“Your Majesty,” began a slender young woman with wheat-colored hair and oddly dark eyes, “I wonder if you could tell us about Vitellio. Was it wonderful and strange? Are all the men as handsome as Sir Cazio?”

“Well, not all of them,” Anne said. “Miss…?”

“Cotsmur, Majesty. Audry Cotsmur.”

“Well, Miss Costmur, there is no lack of comely fellows there. As to the rest, yes, I suppose I thought it was strange and exotic at first.”

“And is it true you worked as a scrub maid?” another asked.

“Hush, Agnes,” Lize hissed, clapping her hand over the mouth of a girl who looked about thirteen.

“That’s not to be brought up; you know that.” She looked at Anne. “I’m so sorry, Majesty. Miss Ellis often talks without thinking.”

“Miss de Neivless, it’s no matter,” Anne said. “Miss Ellis is quite right. When I was hiding in z’Espino, I did scrub pots and pans and floors. I did what needed to be done to return here.”

“It must have been awful,” Cotsmur said.

Anne thought back. “It was,” she said. “And I was a pretty terrible maid, at least at first.” But part of her suddenly longed for those days in z’Espino. She knew that was absurd. She had been in fear of her life, working like a dog at menial tasks, often missing meals. But still, compared to the times that came later, compared to now, those days seemed simple. And she had had her friends, and they had been working together to survive, which had rewards she’d never imagined while growing up in privilege.

She would almost want to have those days back.

But it didn’t matter what she wanted, did it?

The girls began chattering among themselves, silly prattle about who was handsome and who was sneaking off to see whom. It made her sad, not least because she had been sillier than most of them not so very long ago.

It was a relief when John came to tell her that the Virgenyan delegation had arrived. Taking Lize and Audry with her, she went to change her dress and receive them.

She chose a black and gold Safnite gown, a light breastplate, and greaves. She had Lize trim her hair back up to her ears and chose a simple circlet for her crown. Then she went to the Red Hall.

As far as Anne knew, the Red Hall never had been used to receive ambassadors. Her father hadn’t used it for anything; it was in the oldest part of the castle and not very large. The king had preferred the more imposing chambers to overawe those who came before him.

But that lack of use had made it the perfect place for children to play. Her sister Fastia had held pretend-court there, throwing lavish banquets of cakes and wine or whatever they could pilfer or beg from the kitchens. In those days, more often than not, Anne had pretended to be a knight, since being a princess was—well, what she was. Austra had been her man-at-arms, and they had defended their queen from countless invasions and depredations.

Anne felt comfortable there. It also suited the image of the warrior-queen she had adopted to meet in less formal places, more face to face.

Today the hall seemed a bit large, however, because the number in the Virgenyan delegation was exactly three. The leader she recognized as a frequent visitor to her father’s court, the baron of Ifwitch, Ambrose Hynde. The black hair she remembered was grayer now, and his squarish face more lined. She reckoned he was about fifty. He had a vaguely apologetic look in his eyes that worried her. Behind him stood two other men. One was her cousin Edward Dare, the prince of Tremor, a man of some sixty years. His silver hair had been cropped till he was nearly bald, and he had a severe, hawklike look about his face.

The third man, by contrast, was unknown to her and younger, probably no more than thirty. She noticed his eyes first, because something seemed odd about them. After a moment she understood that it was that one was green and the other brown. His face was friendly and intelligent, boyish, really. He had auburn hair and a small mustache and goatee that were redder.

He smiled, and she realized her gaze must have lingered on him while she sorted out his eyes. She frowned and looked away. They were announced by her herald, each in turn kissing her outstretched hand. The phay-eyed man turned out to be the Thames Dorrel, the earl of Cape Chavel.

“Such a large delegation,” she said when the immediate formalities were done. “It’s good to know our cousin Charles takes our troubles seriously.”

“She goes right for it, doesn’t she?” Cape Chavel said.

“I haven’t spoken to you,” Anne snapped. “I’m speaking to the baron.”

“Majesty,” the baron said, “I understand how this looks, but it wasn’t meant as an insult.”

“Well, I can’t imagine what an intended insult must be like, then. But that’s not really the point, Baron.

The point is that Virgenya and her monarch are subject to the will of their empress. I requested knights and men in arms, not a delegation, and so I can only imagine you’ve been sent to tell me that Virgenya is in open revolution.”

“That we are not, Majesty,” the baron replied.

“Then you’ve brought the men with you?”

“They will come, madame,” he said.

“I rather need them now, not after the ravens are picking our bones.”

“It is a long march from Virgenya,” Baron Ifwitch said. “And there was difficulty in the levy. Monsters have been swarming out of the Mountains of the Hare, terrorizing the countryside. And since your actions against the Church—”

“What of the Church’s actions toward me? Or the good people of Virgenya?”

“Loyalty to z’Irbina has lately become a fashion in Virgenya, Majesty, especially among the nobility. No one actually refused to send men, but they have found ways to…delay.”

“You’re saying that the trouble isn’t that my dear cousin is insubordinate but that he cannot command his own nobles?”

“There is some truth in that, yes.”

“I see.”

“I’m not sure you do, Majesty. The political situation in Virgenya is very complicated at the moment.”

“Too complicated for me to sort out, you mean?”

“Nothing of the kind, Majesty. I will be happy to explain it to you.” Anne sat back in her chair. “You will, but not now. Do you have any other bad news for me?”

“No, madame.”

“Very well. Have a rest. I would be pleased if you would meet me at my table tonight.”

“We would be honored, Majesty.”

“Good.”

The two older men turned to go, but the younger stood his ground.

“What?” she asked.

“Is that leave to speak, Majesty?”

Despite herself, she smiled a bit. “I suppose it is. Go ahead.”

“You asked if we had more bad news. I do not. But I hope you will think I have brought a little good news.”

“Delightful if true,” Anne said. “Please say on.”

Ifwitch took a step toward the earl. “Tam, you shouldn’t—”

“Really, Ifwitch, I would like to hear this rumored good news.” He bowed and didn’t say anything else.

“It’s true, some nobles don’t know where their duties lie. I am not one of them. Majesty, I’ve brought my bodyguard with me, five hundred and fifty of the best horsemen you will ever see. They—and I—are yours.”

“King Charles has released you to me?” She asked.

None of them spoke, although Ifwitch reddened.

“I see,” she replied. “He hasn’t.”

“Charles needs the nobles he trusts in Virgenya,” the earl said. “It’s really that simple. He knows I would never ride against him. But as I am loyal to him, so I am to the empress he serves, so I have come directly to petition you.”

“I didn’t think I would hear much pleasing today,” Anne said. “I was wrong. I accept your loyalty.” She shot her gaze back at the other two men. “It is a thing in short supply these days.” CHAPTER TWO

ALONG THE DEEP RIVER

WITCHLIGHTS LED the way as Stephen, Zemlé, Adhrekh, and twenty Aitivar descended into the roots of the mountain. The ethereal globes of iridescence flitted about, casting the otherwise bleak gray walls in shades of gold, silver, ruby, emerald, and sapphire. Stephen had never seen witchlights before entering the Witchhorn, but Aspar had spoken of them as a fixture of Sefry rewns.

Oddly enough, the Aitivar didn’t seem to know anything about them other than what anyone could observe. Were they alive? Creations of shinecraft or some natural product of the tenebres?

No one knew, and no book Stephen could find answered the question. But they were useful, and they were pretty, which was more than could be said about most things.

They were particularly useful just now, as the path they walked was barely a kingsyard wide, bounded on the right hand by the stone of the great central subterrain of the caverns and on the left by the crevasse through which the underground river Nemeneth sought its way through stone and earth to feed deeper streams and eventually, perhaps, the Welph, which flowed in turn to the Warlock and thence to the Lier Sea at Eslen. He could hear the rushing of the Nemeneth, but it was too far below him for the witchlights to reveal.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Zemlé asked him.

“I’m sure I’m not,” he replied. “I wasn’t ready to walk the first faneway I walked. Then I nearly died—maybe did die—just setting foot on another sedos. But Virgenya Dare wasn’t ready, either. She just did it. And I’m not going to wait until the Vhelny or whatever it is that’s stalking me has its chance.”

“Then the journal talks about the faneway?”

“Yes. I was reading an early part, when she was a girl, and the Skasloi took her into the mountains. This mountain. She felt the faneway below her. Years later she came back and walked it.”

“So she tells where it is.”

“Yes. I know where I’m going, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Is it much farther?”

He smiled. “That’s what we used to ask my father on long trips. Have you aged backward to five?”

“No. I don’t care how far it is. I’m just curious.”

“I reckon it at about half a league. It’s in another part of the mountain. Adhrekh, have you ever been this way before?”

“The cavern ends ahead, pathikh.”

“You really believe that, or is this just something else you neglected to tell me? Another test to see if I’m really Kauron’s heir?”

“It’s not a test, pathikh. We’ve never known where the faneway is.” Stephen stopped. “It’s going to stay that way, then. Give me a pack of food and water and return to your rewn.”

“Pathikh—”

“Do it. If I even suspect you’re following me, I won’t go anywhere near the faneway. Do you understand?”

“Pathikh, this place you are going—it is old, very old, and it has been abandoned for a long time. There’s no knowing what might lurk there in the dark.”

“Stephen, he’s right,” Zemlé said. “Going alone would be foolish.”

“They’ve just admitted they need me to find the faneway. Maybe that’s all they ever needed from me.

Maybe once I find it, I’m of no use to them.”

“Stephen, Sefry can’t walk faneways. Any faneways. Why would they want to know where this one is?” That drew him to a stop. “What? I’ve never heard that.”

“It’s true,” Adhrekh said.

Stephen frowned and leafed quickly through his saint-blessed memory. No Sefry had ever joined the Church and walked a faneway; that much was true. But there was something…

“As soon have a Sefry walk a faneway as give shiveroot for the gout,” he cited.

“What?” Zemlé asked.

“From the Herbal of Phelam Haert. It’s the only thing I can think of that supports your claim. Anyway, maybe they have someone in mind to walk it other than me.”

“Who? Not Fend, obviously. Hespero? Then why did they fight him?” You can trust the Aitivar.

Stephen blinked. Everyone was looking at him strangely.

“What did you say?” Zemlé asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You were just babbling in some other tongue.”

Stephen sighed and massaged his forehead. “Nothing,” he said. “Never mind. All right, Adhrekh. You can come.”

Adhrekh acknowledged that by bowing, and they continued the descent. As the Sefry had predicted, the roof of the cave came sloping down to meet them even as the angle of the trail sharpened and finally became stairs. The churning of the river grew louder, and eventually the stairs ended on a bed of gravel and sand at its banks.

Stephen had been trying not to think about this part, but now he was there, and he felt his breath shorten.

It wasn’t how he had imagined it; it was much worse.

Upstream, where the Aitivar dwelt, the Nemeneth was a relatively placid stream. Here, she came crashing down from a series of shoals and waterfalls to form a great vortex. The cave roof was only two kingsyards above that, and across the river was only stone.

“No,” Zemlé said. “Oh, saints, no.”

“I’m afraid so,” Stephen said. He was trying to sound brave and nonchalant, but his voice quavered. He hoped they couldn’t hear that over the steady thrumming of the river-size drain.

“This can’t be right,” she said, and turned to Adhrekh. “Haven’t any of you ever tried this?” Adhrekh actually coughed out a little laugh, something Stephen had never heard the man do before.

“Why?” he said. “Why would anyone do that? I could live seven hundred years if I’m careful.” Stephen sat on the shingle and tried to take deep, slow breaths. The witchlights seemed slower now, calmer.

“Stephen?”

“I have to,” he said. He took a few more breaths, levered himself up, and walked toward the rushing whirlpool. He knew he couldn’t pause, and so he leapt in, aiming his feet toward the center of it.

It took him with incredible violence. The power of the water was absolute, and nothing his limbs could do had any effect. All he could do was try to hold on to his air, not scream and let it all out, and he suddenly knew with absolute certainty that he somehow had been tricked. He was a dead man, and knowing that, he lost the power of thought entirely.

When it came back, he remembered being ground against sand and stone and then expulsion and the grip of the flood easing. Now he lay on gravel in utter darkness, coughing out the water that had forced its way into his lungs.

A golden glow rose up in front of him, and then a deep red one. A few heartbeats later the witchlights were all around him again.

He lay on a strand not very different from the one he had just left, but here there was no high-vaulted chamber, only a tunnel two kingsyards higher than the river flowing through it. Water crashed through the roof in a great column on his right, and on his left the passage went on much farther than his luminescent companions could reveal.

He heard violent coughing and saw the silhouette of a head and shoulders rise from the pool: Adhrekh.

“Zemlé!” he gasped. Had she tried to follow him, too?

More Aitivar appeared, but he didn’t see her.

“Zemlé!” he repeated, this time at the top of his lungs.

“I have her,” someone said. In the stir he couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from exactly.

“Who is that?”

Then he made out one of the Aitivar cradling a limp figure. He waded up onto the beach.

“Saints curse me,” Stephen snarled. “Is she—”

The fellow shrugged and lay her down. Her head was smeared with black, which Stephen realized was blood rendered dark by the colored lights. For a moment he felt paralyzed, but then she coughed, and water bubbled out of her mouth.

“Bandages,” he told Adhrekh. “Get me bandages and whatever unction you might have.” Adhrekh nodded.

“Zemlé,” Stephen said, stroking her cheek. “Can you hear me?” He took the sleeve of his shirt and pressed it to her wound, trying to see how deep it was. Her eyes opened, and she shrieked.

“Sorry,” Stephen said. “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” she said. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I hate you.” She felt toward her brow. “Am I bleeding to death?”

“I think it’s a shallow cut,” he replied. “There’s a lot of blood, but I don’t think your skull broke.” Adhrekh returned with linen cloths and some sort of paste with a sul-fury smell and set about bandaging Zemlé’s head. He seemed to know what he was doing, so Stephen didn’t interfere. His pulse finally began slowing down, and he felt unexpected exhilaration flood through him.

Who was he to brave such things? Not the Stephen Darige who had left Ralegh for the monastery d’Ef, what, not even two years ago?

Even Aspar might be proud of him.

“Did we lose anyone?” Stephen asked Adhrekh.

“No, pathikh,” the Sefry replied. “All accounted for.”

“It’s colder down here,” Stephen noticed. “You brought the change of clothes I asked for?”

“Yes. And now I understand why you asked for them. But if you had told me more concerning what we were to do, I might have made more effort to keep them dry. I can better serve you, pathikh, if you talk to me more.”

“The extra clothes are wet? What about the coats?”

“Drier than what we’re wearing, pathikh.”

“It’ll have to do. When Zemlé can walk, we’ll move on. Moving will warm us.”

“Stephen,” Zemlé said. “A small question. Tiny, really.”

“Yes?”

“There is another way back, yes?”

Stephen glanced at the waterfall. “Right. I guess we can’t swim back up that.”

“Stephen—”

“Virgenya Dare made it out.”

“But you don’t know how?”

“She neglected to write about that, I’m afraid. But there must be a way out.”

“And we only need find it before we run out of food or freeze to death.”

“Don’t be a pessimist,” Stephen said, his elation starting to fade. “We’ll be fine.”

“How much farther to the start of the faneway?”

“I’m not sure. Virgenya wasn’t sure; it’s hard to measure time and distance underground. She reckoned it at several bells but admitted it could have been days.”

“What if we get lost?”

“Not much chance of that right now,” he said. “We’ve only one direction to go. Anyway, I can feel the faneway. It’s close.” He gripped her shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“A little dizzy, but I can walk.”

Adhrekh had dug out the coats from their packs, sturdy elkhide paiden with fur lining. They were hardly wet at all, and once clothed in one, Stephen felt a great deal better even though he was still wet.

Once everything was gathered again, they started out.

The passage bent and turned like the bed of any river and its roof went higher and lower, but it stayed simple in terms of choices. More streams joined it, but they came from above, from fissures too small to accommodate a person. The floor dropped roughly down in places, forcing them to use rope to descend, but was never as dramatic or dangerous as what they already had been through. Not, that is, until they reached the place Virgenya Dare called simply “the valley.” Stephen knew they were approaching it because the close echoes of the tunnel began opening up, becoming vastly more hollow, along with the sound of rushing water.

They came to the lip where the river churned and fell far from sight, and a vast black space yawned before them.

“And now?” Zemlé asked.

“There should be stairs here,” Stephen said, searching along the ledge. The river must have flooded at times and eaten at the sides of the mouth, creating a shallow, low-roofed cave that went off to the left of the opening. After a moment he found what the Born Queen must have been talking about, and he groaned in dismay.

“What’s wrong?” Zemlé asked, trying to see around him.

“Two thousand years,” Stephen sighed.

There were indeed stairs cut into the stone of the wall, but the first four yards of them were gone, doubtless eroded by the floods he had just been considering. After that, the steps that remained looked glassy and worn. To reach them meant leaping three yards and falling two and then avoiding slipping upon landing. Or breaking a leg. And once there, he had no assurance there wasn’t a similar gap farther on.

Behind him, he heard Adhrekh in a hushed conversation.

“Any ideas?” Stephen asked.

He heard the quick thump of footsteps and air brushed at his locks. Then he saw one of the Aitivar hurl himself into space toward the eroded stairs.

“Saints!” Stephen gasped. He didn’t have time to say anything else before the fellow hit the stair, flailed for balance, teetered—and fell. Then he could only stare.

“Who—who was that?” he finally managed.

“Unvhel,” Adhrekh said.

“Why—” But then another one was running past him.

“Wait—”

But of course it was too late. The jumper hit the step, and his foot slipped, so that he fell like a tomfool at a traveling show, landing on his prat and sliding. Stephen held his breath, sure the Aitivar would go over, but he somehow caught himself and managed to slip down the water-worn steps to stable footing.

Stephen turned to Adhrekh. “What is wrong with you people?” he asked, trying to contain his anger.

“You were just on about how long you could live if you didn’t do anything stupid.”

“You shamed us at the waterfall, pathikh. If I had known your plan, one of us would have gone in first.

We were determined not to let you risk yourself so foolishly again.”

“What good would it have done to go into the water before me? I wouldn’t have known if you made it or not.”

“Begging your pardon, pathikh, but you might have been able to hear us below. You’ve walked the faneway of Saint Decmanus.”

Stephen reluctantly acknowledged that with a tilt of his head. “So you sent them to jump before I could try it?”

“Yes.”

“But I wouldn’t have jumped.”

Adhrekh shrugged. “Very well. But someone had to, unless you know some other way down.”

“I don’t.”

A sharp ringing commenced, and Stephen realized that the Aitivar on the steps was working at the stone with a hammer and chisel, probably trying to create some purchase to tie a rope to. Another Sefry began the same work on their side. After perhaps half a bell, a rope was fixed across the gulf, and Adhrekh went across, hanging upside down, hooking his legs over the cord and using his hands to pull himself along.

Before Stephen went, they tied a second rope around his waist. An Aitivar held it at either end so that if he fell, they had a chance of stopping him. That safeguard made Stephen feel a bit condescended to but infinitely safer, and he insisted that Zemlé be brought across in the same fashion.

Finally, with the exception of a man Stephen hadn’t known the name of, they were all on the stairs.

The footing improved after ten or so kingsyards, the steps becoming more defined and the way wider.

The witchlights occasionally showed the other side of the crevasse but not the bottom, or the roof, for that matter.

“It’s colder still,” Zemlé noticed.

“Yes,” Stephen agreed. “There is much debate about the nature of the world beneath. Some mountains spew fire and molten rock, so one would imagine there is great heat below. And yet caves tend to be cold.”

“Rather that than molten rock,” she replied.

“Yes. What was that?”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“Up above, at the waterfall: a sort of scraping sound, like something big coming through.”

“Something big?”

“Archers,” Adhrekh said quietly.

Stephen tried to focus in the direction of the sound, but beyond their luminous companions there was only darkness.

“Is there any way to dampen the witchlights?” Stephen asked. “They make us easy to see.” And then he smelled it, a hot, animal, resiny smell, just like the trace of scent in the aerie.

“He’s here,” Stephen said, trying to keep his voice from showing his building panic.

A warm breeze blew across them, and Stephen heard the sharp hum of a bowstring.