
    
    




    




    $22.00 U.S.
    $29.50 CAN
    
                             A ground-breaking fantasy
                         world created by a multiple New
                          York Times bestselling author
                         and Ireland' s King of Fantasy.
    
     Silverhand, Book I of the Arcana, represents
    Morgan Llywelyn's     




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    117
    
     "You think so? I assure you, the twins are not as bad as
    their father, not by half His favorite method of execution
    was impaling - did you not notice that long row of huge
    iron spikes across from the palace gates? Those are not
    some new form of sculpture, Pelotas. They have served a
    more sinister purpose in their time."
     The younger man was staring at him. "Are such beings
    mad?"
     'The world is mad," Tinos replied. "And growing
    madder every season, one way or another.
     "You may recall I tried to warn. you about Barrow, and
    the court. But you wanted to come here."
     "I'll return to Galloway at once!"
     "It is not that easy. First you must ride with the Duet.
            at appointment, and your next appoint-
                the executioner's axe, I assure you."
    
    Fail to keep th
    went will be with
    
     "Did you breed these mounts yourself, Gallowan?"
    Sarel asked, running her hand along the russet mare's
    silken neck. They were standing in the hallway of the
    royal stables, with large stalls on either side, holding fine
    horses. But none so fine as the animals Pelotas had
    brought, including the mare Sarel was admiring. An
    identical mare in the next stall hung her head over the
    half-door and whickered softly.
     The female half of the Duet was dressed in a
    butter-soft leather riding coat that emphasized her
    graceful figure. With her hair tied back, and wearing
    neither paint nor lip dye, she looked older, however.
    Pelotas saw a wealth of experience lurking in her eyes; far
    too much for the young girl she had at first appeared.
     He watched with a combination of fear and fascination
    as she gently blew into the mare's nostrils, ie"'aching the
    horse her scent. At least Sarel knew horses. "This is a fine
    animal," she observed. 'Wide between the eyes. And both
    these mares are obviously in excellent condition."
     "They are from my father's stables," Pelotas told her
    first foray into pure fantasy
    Writing with Michael Scott, Llywelyn makes it
    obvious that she needed a larger framework
    than that provided by the Celtic fantasy genre -
    even though her contributions to that genre
    have made her one of the two or three most
    successful fantasy authors ever published.
    
     They are THE ARCANA. Collectively, they are
    the ultimate symbols of cosmic power. Millen-
    nia ago they were the treasures of the gods ol
    creation, honored and cherished in four great
    cities since swept away by the rivers of time,
    The Spear of Light came from Gorlas. The city ol
    Falias contained The Stone of Destiny. From
    Murias came The Cup of Blood. The Sword of
    Flame was enshrined within Findias.
     Properly used by an adept, these four to-
    gether have the power to create worlds-or to
    destroy them. The volumes of THE ARCANA tell
    of the desperate quest to rediscover the ancient
    tools of creation and restore a world that lives
    only in memory. A world everyone longs to re-
    turn to, in their most secret dreams. The lost
    world at the outermost limit of human desire.
     Book One tells the story of Silverhand, he
    who was foretold, he who is destined to save
    the world from Chaos and begin the long climb
    back to the world that lives within us all.
    
    7652
    
    02200
    
    ISBN 0-6?1-8?652-X
    
    I

    





    





    




    I
    
                    I
      MORGAN
    LLYWELYN
    ~Vol~qb
    THE ARCANA, Book 1
    
                   IDT
    N9CHAipjt-jscoTr
    03AEN
    
     NEWCA 1~7il-m
    REGICiNl,,,%
    6*

    




    SILVERHAND: THE ARCANA, BOOK I
    
    This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events
    portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance
    to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
    
    Copyright@ 1995 by Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this
    book or portions thereof in any form.
    
    A Baen Books Original
    
    Baen Publishing Enterprises
    PO Box 1403
    Riverdale, NY 10471
    
    ISBN: 0-671-87652-X
    
    Cover art by Gary Ruddell
    
    First printing, April 1995
    
    Distributed by Simon & Schuster
    1230 Avenue of the Americas
    New York, NY 10020
    
    Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
    
    Llywelyn, Morgan
   Silverhand / by Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott.
           p. cm. -- (The Arcana : v. 1)
       ISBN 0-671-87652-X
       1. Scott, Michael, 1959-     11. Title. III. Series:
     Llywelyn, Morgan. Arcana v. 1.
     PS3562.L94S57 1995
     813'.54--dc2O
    
    Printed in the United States of America
    
    94-44443
      CIP

    




    ot x4ld4,
    
    a

    





    




      What is the nature of evil?
      And good - define for me its nature.
     Then explain to me how we can tell one
    from the other. We Judge darkness in
    comparison to the light. We recognize evil
    by contrasting it with good. But are such
    judgements easily made? Can good be put
    to evil uses, and evil used for good?
     This I have learned: There are no abso-
    lutes, nothing stays the same.
    from the Joumal of Caeled Silverhand

    





    




    I
    
    THE SrOXEN ONE

    





    




    rROLOGVIE
    
      The feathered sidewinder twisted across -the noonday
    sand, leaving a distinctive trail in the dunes.
      The serpent paused, tongue flickering, alerted by the
    faintest trembling on the desert air. Its tongue flickered
    again' sorting through various smells: acrid silicate, hot
    stones baking hotter in the sun, the oozing waxy sap of
    spiny succulents. Familiar atmosphere, nothing alarming.
      The snake curled and twisted its body, muscling its way
    forward across the rippled surface of the dunes. Then it
    realized the sand was actually burning its skin.
     The sidewinder hesitated again.
     Movement.
     A slight shuddering of the air, vague, indistinct.
     Odor
     Sweet and cloying, bitter and repellent.
      The forked tongue of the serpent danced and its head
    swayed from side to side as it tried to detect the source of
    the movement, the origin of the scent. It reared upward
    with its multicolored feathered frill vibrating in alarm.
      The sand began moving, shiffing, twisting, patterns
    distorting, symmetrical ripples dissolving into chaos.
      The serpent was deaf; it could not hear the sudden
    scream that tore through the sky. A scream without
    emotion, without shape or color. The White Scream of
    something that had never lived, a wordless howl that
    blotted out the normal desert noises. Gone was the hiss of
    blowing sand, the sighing of the wind.

    




    4
    
    SILVERHAND
    
      Then the scream itself ceased.
     The silence that followed was the silence of ice and
    death, of some terrible, unimaginable emptiness.
      The sound of nothingness. Negation.
     The snake's limited vision could not encompass the
    cloud that suddenly appeared above the desert. The
    cloud convulsed, forming and reforming. Swooping from
    the sky, it rolled across the desert sand like some sentient
    predator, hunting.
     When the sidewinder's primeval brain alerted it to
    danger, the snake began trying to escape. Frantically it
    hooped itself across the sands in search of shelter.
      The cloud fastened upon the living creature.
     The scream returned, but at a different pitch. It
    shrilled higher and higher, rising until it was felt rather
    than heard. Sound tore through flesh like a kr0e.
     The snake thrashed briefly, then snapped rigid as its
    muscles locked. The cloud shrank in on itself. The
    serpent's flesh began to split, fluids and pale blood leaking
    from the tears in the skin.
     The cloud vanished. The scream stopped; The side-
    winder exploded into ragged meat.
     Where the serpent had been was a gleaming sheet of
    blue-green glass, sizzling, still molten. In the air above the
    glass a single, multicolored feather circled lazily on an
    updraft.

    




    CHArTIER ONE
    
     The tower was strictly forbidden to the youngsters of
    Ward Point. A ruined pillar of stones jutting upward from
    the remains of a keep, the structure resembled a broken
    finger rising from a clenched fist. Caeled, who loved old
    stories and legends, listened with fascination to tales of a
    long-ago time when the tower had been part of a
    defensive network protecting the borders of the South-
    lands from the savage northern tribes.
     Once these stones had witnessed violence and terror in
    full measure. Now the fortification was nothing more
    than a dangerous ruin, but lingering superstition still kept
    people away.
     Caeled was not afraid of the tower, however. In his few
    short years he had experienced real fear and deprivation;
    tales from the ancient past could not intimidate him.
    They merely stimulated his curiosity. A thin, wiry boy,
    long-legged, with knees perpetually skinned, he enjoyed
    clambering through the ruins and exploring the echoing
    chambers, and had encountered nothing more sinister
    than a pack of dog-rats breeding in the cellars. He
    managed to kill one with his slingshot and drop it onto the
    heads of a gang of voung rowdies at the foot of the tower,
    giving them a fright which made him chortle with glee.
     He often sought refuge in the tower when the local
    bullies pursued him. They swaggered and boasted, but the
    towees bloody history had'so far discouraged them from
    following Caeled up the dark well of the spiral stone stairs.

    




    6
    
    SILVERHAND
    
       His tormentors were local youths no older 0
    himself, boys on the brink of manhood exploring n
    aggression. They delighted in attacking anyone i
    seemed different, and Caeled was a favorite victim.
    was quiet where they were loud, gentle where they v
    brutal. Even his looks set him apart.
      Of all the boys in the town, only he had a swa
    complexion, coarse dark hair, and night-black eyes. 'Ll
    coloring indicated origins in the far south. Native
    Ward Point where Caeled and his mother now lived 1
    fair and pale-eyed. They needed little pigment to pri
    them from the weak sun that rarely shone in the b(
    districts. Thick mist hovering over the marshlands er(
    an almost perpetual gloom.
      Caeled assumed his looks were a gift from his fi
    though he knew little about the man. He had stc
    asking about him a long time ago, when he realized
    questions tended to bring on one of his mother's bo
    drunken melancholy.
      On one of the rare days when a watery sun
    through the mist, Caeled climbed to the very top
    tower to enjoy the'view. In his ragged knee-length
    and tattered tunic he made his way through sh~
    rooms and along roofless corridors, feeling gritty
    crunch under his feet, teetering with outstretche(
    across a jagged spar which was all that remained
    upper floor. A moment's lost balance made his hea
    but he quickly recovered, thrilling with the shu~
    delight that follows a danger survived.
      The boy let out a whoop of exhilaration -
    laughed at the startled scuttling of rats in the walls.
    
      In the tower Caeled could be a child. There ho
    little opportunity for childhood in a hard life that
    him to mature before his time. One would have
    very deep to discover the unextinguished twinkle
    in his eyes.

    




    Morgan Vywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    F
     The tower was in slightly better repair closer to the top.
    Legend had it that a creature of fire and air had once
    erupted from beneath the cellars and claimed every living
    soul, but for some reason failed to rampage through the
    upper reaches of the tower. It was a believable story.
    Scorch marks on the stone walls and charred timbers
    showed evidence of once having endured terrible heat.
    These were enough to fuel Caeledls imagination. He
    would visualize the tower intact as it must have looked
    long ago, then dream up fire-breathing monsters and play
    at defending the stronghold against them.
     In such games he was always fearless - and victorious.
     Closer to the top the air was sweeter. A damp wind off
    the marshes swept away the smells from the town, odors
    of grease and cooking, of wood and turf fires, of
    excrement and urine and the indescribable stench of too
    many people huddled together. Seen from the tower,
    Ward Point became less squalid. Distance blurred its
    weatherbeaten timber houses and shops into a pleasing
    pattern, neat as the town itself could never be. The
    majority of the townspeople existed in filthy, cramped
    conditions, struggling to eke out a living on the brink of
    poverty. Their lives were devoid of beauty.
     But Caeled in his tower could imagine beauty for them.
     Sitting in the crumbling arched window at the very top
    of the tower, the boy breathed deeply, fiffing his lungs as
    he gazed out across the marshlands to the north. This was
    his favorite place, his private sanctuary. Here he could let
    his dreams take wing.
     "I will be emperor someday and give every one of my
    subjects a palace to live in!" he proclaimed. "And a fertile
    field to farm," he added with a sense of practicality.
    Shading his eyes, he scanned the landscape in vain for
    suitable farmland.
     His attention was arrested by an area where desolate
    swamp disappeared into the gray nothingness that
    marked a pocket of the Void.

    




    8
    
    SILVERHAND
    
     Void. He shaped the word with his lips, silently.
      From the moment his mother had brought him to tl
    tiny border town, Caeled had been fascinated by f
    proximity of the Void. In the Southlands of his earh(
    memory, Voids were considered little more than myfl
    But in the years he and his mother had spent moving e-,
    closer to the border and the north, fleeing debt collect(
    and magistrates, they had learned that the Voids w(
    more than legend.
      Some day, when he was old enough, Caeled planned
    investigate this nearest Void.
      His dreaming eyes fixed on the dull, pale-orange C'
    of the sun, almost obscured again by a bank of swift-m
    ing clouds. Then for no particular reason, he glanced b,
    at the marshlands. The earth was a drab gray-gre
    monotonous and depressing. Suddenly a shaft of def)
    sunlight broke free of the clouds and illuminated
    earth beneath. The marshlands exploded into cc
    Sunshine turned the water to mirrors reflecting
    heavens. Sparkling pools of yellow light danced ai
    myriad tiny islands of'vivid green moss.
     With sunlight washing over the fens, the boy could
    the Void quite clearly. Its edges were sharply delineE
    against the marsh colors, as if an artist had rubbed aw
    section of a painting, erasing the paints, leaving I
    canvas beneath. The Void was an absence of light and
    a negation of the visible world. A terrifying emptiness.
     Caeled gazed at it, wondering ...
     Abruptly, color sparkled at the very heart of the Voi
     Caeled blinked.
     For a single instant, startling hues - blood red, br
    purple, bone white - had burned in the center of
    emptiness.
     Caeled shook his head, telling himself it was not
    more than the afterimage of the sun on his eyes.
     Yet as he watched, disbelieving, new and diffe
    colors appeared. An eerie blue-green, a leprous yell(

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    9
    
    sullen and angry scarlet. Then the clouds recaptured the
    sun and the marshlands were plunged back into their
    usual somber tones. But the colors remained in the Void.
    Pulsating colors throbbing in the very center of empti-
    ness.
     Caeled deliberately closed his eyes and looked away.
    He counted to five before he turned back.
     The colors were brighter. Nearer.
     And a figure seemed to be moving in the heart of the
    Void.
     Not only moving, but coming closer.
     Part of the boy was frightened and longed to look away,
    yet he was drawn by the hypnotic lights. They were so
    beautiful. His mother once had a pendant set with glass
    jewels. She had stolen it from an Amorican merchant and
    spent three days in the stocks as a result, but Caeled
    never forgot that pendant, and the way the colors - reds,
    yellows, blues and greens - had sparkled like so many
    stars.
     The lights in the Void reminded him of that pendant.
     The sun escaped the clouds once more, flooding the
    marshlands with radiance. The colors in the Void faded by
    contrast, only to blaze anew when the clouds reclaimed
    their prisoner.
     And a figure seemed to step out of theVoid.
     Startled, Caeled leaped to his feet. He swayed dizzily
    for a moment. Those sparkling lights had carved patterns
    onto his retina. When the youngster looked toward the
    Void again his stomach churned with such violence he
    gasped. Sudden cramps knotted his insides.
     At that moment a terrifying sound split the air. It was a
    sound composed of every possible noise all whirled into
    one, a sound like the world tearing apart. A White
    Scream.
     Caeled slid helplessly to the floor, overcome with nausea.
    He was shivering yet he could feel icy sweat gathering in his
    arnipits. Perhaps the sound was part of his sickness.

    




    10
    
    SILVERHAND
    
      Must have been something he'd eaten, he told himself,
    though he'd had nothing but a crust of oil-soaked bread
    since breakfast. Maybe the bread was mouldy again, or
    bad maggots in it. He hated bread with maggots, though
    he knew some people ate cheese with maggots crawling
    through it and were thankful for the nourishment they
    provided. At the thought, his stomach heaved and he
    vomited his meager breakfast.
      When his retching finally ceased he realized the
    scream had ceased also. He was so exhausted he could
    only curl up in a ball on the stones, all interest in the Void
    forgotten. A dizzy darkness claimed him. Caeled awoke.
      He lay unmoving, trying to remember where he was.
    Directly in front of him a carrion-spider was picking
    through his crusted vomit. He could see with frightening
    clarity the long red hairs on its legs and fat round body
    and the pincerlike jaws masticating its meal. When f
    realized the boy was watching it in horrified fascinatior
    the spider turned toward him and reared up, waving it
    forelegs threateningly.
      With a cry of terror, Caeled jumped back. Thi
    carrion-spiders were not deadly, unlike many of thei
    species, but their bite could cause painful pustules fo
    days afterwards.
      The boy got slowly to his feet. He was grateful that th
    spasm, or whatever it was, had passed. But he groane
    aloud when his painfully tender stomach protested hi
    movements.
      Leaning on the window ledge, he gulped great lungfu
    of clean marsh air to clear his head and wondered ho,
    long he had slept. Not very long, judging by the light i
    the sky. He glanced toward the Void, then immediate
    looked away as his stomach heaved in memory. He foug]
    own his nausea and tried again.
      No lights flickered and pulsed in the Void. Nothii
    moved there.
      Had he really seen what he thought, or had his ey

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    11
    
    been playing tricks on him? Cradling his sore stomach
    with his arms, he began the long descent to the street
    below. He hoped he would not run into any of his
    tormentors. He was too weak to outrun them and they
    co easily throw him into the midden again.
     As he neared the ground level, Caeled became aware
    of a puzzling silence. There was no hum of insects, no
    scurrying of rats in the walls. He stopped and turned his
    head from side to side, listening, then deliberately spoke
    aloud, just to hear his voice and be certain he had not
    9one deaf. "Hello?"
     The sound echoed reassuringly from the stones around
    him.
     He took another few steps down, head tilted to one
    side, ears intent. Though the tower walls were thick, and
    muffled noise, he knew he should be hearing some
    sounds from the nearby town: carts rattling over the
    cobbled approach road, hawkers crying their wares, the
    high-pitched squealing of pigs being driven to market.
     But there was nothing.
     Absolute silence.
     He came to the bottom of the steps and waited. Now
    he could only hear the hammering of his heart in his
    chest.
     Drawing a deep breath, the boy made himself step
    through the ruined doorway and out onto the road.

    




    CHArTER TWO
    
      The road was empty. Caeled followed it around a ben
    into the town ... and the town was empty too.
      The boy stopped and stared. The High Street whic
    ran the length of Ward Point should have been bustlin
    with activity both human and animal. Whistles an
    squawks from the bird market should be mingling
    wails and curses from the slave pens, with the shouts
    hawkers selling their wares and the greetings called fro
    friend to friend, from door to door.
      But the only sound was that of wind moaning dism
    around the chimney pots. A large ball of spiked rolle
    weed bounced past Caeled and he drew ba(
    instinctively. Some rollerweed spikes were poisonou
    There seemed to be more to.,dc plants appearing all tI
    time, with a corresponding diminution in the number
    beneficial plants. Farmers were complaining. But farme
    always complained.
      Caeled looked down the street in the direction tI
    weed had come. How did it get into the town? Usu
    one of the beggars at the gates caught the weeds ar.
    turned them in to the town fathers before the could
                                  'r m
    any harm, collecting a minute bounty as rewar7
      Caeled hesitated as he approached the fruit stall
    From the nearest issued an appalling stench that m
    his eyes water. Drawing his woollen cloak across his no
    and mouth the boy hurried past, wondering what cou
    have happened.

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    13
    
         When he reached Fat Mattoc's stall, he discovered a
         reason for the smell. The fruitseller's awninged stall was
         awash with a gelatinous liquid, a brown sludge that
         reflected no light. The nauseating substance had dripped
         onto the ground beneath the stall and partially congealed
         there, though in places it continued to bubble thickly,
         viscous bubbles that burst with a disgusting pop to release
         a foul gas. But where had the fruit gone? And where was
         Fat Mattoc, whose broad and smiling face was always
         beaming above his wares?
         Fat Mattoc had been kind to Caeled and occasionally
         found an extra piece of fruit for him and given it without
         charge. His was the most popular stall in the town. He
         specialized in exotic fruits from the warm Southlands,
         great orange globes whose skin was bitter, but whose flesh
         g g
         was as sweet as summer. And tiny black grapes, so rich
         that a handful could make a man drunk. And clusters of
         yellow fruit that grew in a shape like a human hand, and
         melted deliciously in a human mouth.
         Gone, now. Replaced by that sickening substance that
         smelled so awful. Caeled pinched his nostrils closed with
         his fingers and walked on, fearing what he might find.
         Red Roly had the next stall. He too was missing, his
         stall drenched in vile liquid. Because his trays were tilted
         forward to display the assortment of grains and legumes
         he offered, most of the liquid had flowed off onto the
         ground in front of the stall. There it was hardening into a
         crust like a scab on the earth.
         The Yam Man's stall was the biggest in the market. A
         copper-skinned native of one of the barbarian islands that
         lay to the east, he had come to town penniless and in less
         than four cycles become one of its wealthiest merchants.
         All because of yams. When he arrived none of the
         :,ople ate yams, now they were part of everyone's
         townspe
         diet. Most people professed to love them, but Caeled
         disliked the stringy texture of their flesh.
    A-I    The enormous pyramid of yams that was a feature of
    a-

    




    14
    
    SILVERHAND
    
    the Yam Man's stall had vanished. The gelatinous slud
    was thickest here. Crouching on his haunches, Caele
    prodded the sludge with a stick. As the crust broke aparl
    the smell that enveloped him burnt his eyes and seare
    the back of his throat. But he fished out a dissolving
    rind. Dropping the stick into the liquid, Caeled looke
    wildly around. Suddenly he was very cold, and very ve
    frightened.
      The produce had putrefied. Fruit and vegetable
    which had been fresh when Caeled passed through t
    town that same morning had rotted in an impossibly sho
    time, dissolving into rancid sugars and foul liquid.
      What could have done such a thing? What in the nam
    of the gods had happened here?
      And where were the people?
    
      Caeled found the first body in one of the slave pens. I
    was, to his horror, someone he knew - or almost kn
    He had been watching the girl for the last few days
    pitying her captivity, idly wondering how he could he
    her to escape, knowing he wouldn't dare try. Her colorin
    attracted him. She had an olive complexion, black eye
    and hair reminding him of his own. She had been hel
    apart from the others in a pen with metal bars, an
    doubly securedAdth leather thongs around her wrists an
    ankles. She was either especially valuable or had tried t
    escape. The latter, Caeled felt, from the hotly defiant loo
    in her eyes.
      She had obviously tried to escape this time, to fle
    whatever had entered and defiled the 'town. Caele
    caught sight of her feet protruding through the met
    bars. Her ankles were rubbed bloody and raw where' sh
    had struggled against her bindings. But the leather itsel
    was gone.
      The boy approached the pen cautiously. Even from
    distance he could see to his horror that nothing remaine
    of the girl above the knees ... except more of the shme

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    15
    
    shot through with sparkles. Caeled was baffled by the
    sparkles until he realized they were the polished metal of
    the chains that once connected the leather shackles, now
    gleaming through the viscid mess. As he stared at the
    horrid puddle on the ground, Caeled found himself
    wondering why her legs remained. Was it because they
    were touching the cold metal? Possibly whatever had
    consumed the girl was not able to digest metal.
     Fear ran through him like blood, turning his extremi-
    ties to ice. He longed to run but where could he run to,
    where would he find safety? It was better to try to
    discover the source of the horror, he reasoned. Then he
    might know how to protect himself from it.
     Now that he knew what to look for, the signs were
    obvious. Puddles of shme on the street marked the
    positions of people. Tarag the itinerant peddler had stood
    on that comer, selling oddments from the Seven Nations.
    Noxious filth, speckled with thimbles and needles, was
    slowly draining into the gutter.
     Messalane, the whore, had plied her trade on those
    steps. Once she had been beautiful, until a rival cut her
    face with a blade. Afterwards she covered her scars with a
    yashmak decorated with hundreds of southern coins.
    Where she had been standing when the nightmare
    descended on her, putrid corruption now trickled down
    the steps, brightened with numerous tiny coins with holes
    in their centers.
     His mind reeling from what he had seen, Caeled raced
    along the High Street and turned into the narrow laneway
    leading to the tenements where he shared a single room
    with his mother. The reek which permeated Ward Point
    was appalling. His eyes and throat burned; his hair
    seemed to be crawling on his scalp. He longed to wash, to
    scrub away the stink and sights of the ruined town
    though he already knew they would never leave him.
      Most of all he longed to find his mother.
      The town was dead; he was forced to admit that to
    
    ALL

    




    16
    
    SILVERHAND
    
    himself. Every living thing - from the birds in the
    ornamental cages to the stray felines that roamed th
    alleys - was destroyed. Nor had he found any survivir
    humans. Occasionally tiny portions of flesh and bor
    remained, but only where they had been touching co.'
    iron.
      When he came to the end of the lane he paused wari
    in a doorway, looking across a deserted square to d
    tenement which was his home. The square should ha:
    been swarming with noisy children playing, coupl
    arguing, women gossiping, some hopeful musician pro
    ticing off-key. Instead there was silence. Even f
    self-important pigeons that usually strutted along t
    cobblestones were gone.
      Caeled looked up toward the fourth floor of t
    tenement. Only the very poorest lived in the leaky at
    apartments. He had known that he and his mother w(
    poor, but he always hoped things would somed
    somehow, get better. He vowed he would make thi
    better when he became a man, though in his heart
    knew it was only a dream, a straw to clutch at &ring i
    cold hungry times when he could hear his moC
    sobbing in the night.
      There was an ache in Caeled's throat now as he sta
    up at the window of the room he and his mother share,
      He was afraid to imagine what must lie on the ot
    side of that window.
      He did not want his mother to die that way, in pov4
    and squalor. If she was dead, then all his dreams, all
    futures had died with her.
      Steeling himself, the boy darted from the doorway
    he ran across the square he made a futile effortto l<
    from thinking anything. He did not want to go into
    building, up those stairs - he already knew whai
    would find - and yet he had to go, just in case. He
    survived. Maybe his mother had survived too.
      The stairs were coated in slime. He tried to a

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    17
    
    stepping in it, but it fouled the bottoms of his boots in
    spite of his best efforts.
     He found the source of the shme on the first landing.
    There was nothing recognizable in the bubbling pool in
    the comer. On the next landing, he discovered the entire
    floor covered in reeking foulness. A tiny metal chain
    attached to two studs perched atop the sludge, and he
    recognized Serana's nose chain. She usually carried her
    twins in two pouches, one on either hip. The boy turned
    away with a sob, suddenly understanding why the puddle
    was so big.
     The door to his mother's room was open - but that
    was not unusual. The top floors of the house were always
    stiffing and the odors of the tenement accumulated,
    clinging to the ceiling and coating the walls with a
    pervasive smell.
     But there was another, stronger smell in the building
    now.
     "Mama?" Caeled called fearfully, approaching the open
    door. "Mama?"
     The silence mocked him.
     He tried to call again but his voice failed him. Pressing
    his hand flat against the door, he pushed it open.
    "Mama?" The word came out as a whispered croak.
     The dingy room with its broken bits of furniture was
    home, yet he already knew it would not be home to him
    any more. Even as he stepped through the doorway he
    knew he was looking for the last time at the peeling paper,
    the stained ceiling, and the smeared windows. His world
    had changed, changed irrevocably.
     He found her on the bed. Her shape was clearly visible
    where it had soaked into the straw mattress, leaving the
    black shadowlike outline of a human body. Liquid was
    trickling out from beneath the bed.
     Now that he had found her and knew the worst, Caeled
    felt ... relieved. The emotion confused him. He was anaw,
    yes, and frightened too, sickened body and soul by w1fa"t'

    




    18
    
    SILVERHAND
    
    bad happened here, but at least now his mother was at
    peace. Probably for the first time in her life.
      She had suffered, he knew, in ways he could not imagine.
    Her suffering had left her scarred and bitter. There had
    been walls between the two of them that were not of
    Caeled's making, though he had dreamed of the time he
    would do something so wonderful that the walls would
    dissolve and she would hold out loving arms to him.
      As it was, her attitude toward him was puzzling. There
    were days when she had looked at him with an expression
    akin to fear in her eyes, though Caeled knew himself to
    be a gentle boy at heart. His tough and independent
    exterior had been forced upon him by the lives they lived,
    as a form of defense. He would never have hurt his
    mother.
      But did she detect some unsuspected and frightening
    quality in him that reminded her of someone else? His
    father, perhaps? Caeled had often wondered, yet not
    dared ask. Now he would never know.
      He made himself take a long last look at her body - if
    the mess on the bed could be called a body. Something
    shiny caught his eye. Holding his breath against the smell,
    he leaned closer.
     The leather thong his mother had always worn around
    her neck had dissolved with her flesh, but the trinket she
    carried on the thong remained. Caeled's earliest memo-
    ries were of sitting on her lap and trying to play with that
    trinket. She invariably pushed his hand away; he had
    never been allowed to touch it. For some reason he had
    come to believe it once belonged to his father, and was all
    his mother had of that vanished man.     I
      A ring. A simple, heavy metal ring, so large it could
    almost have been a bracelet for -a little boy. A ring without
    a stone, for where one was meant to be, with prongs to
    hold it in place, there was only a gaping oval. The ring was
    incomplete. Yet his mother had cherished it as she
    cherished nothing else.

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    19
    
     With a terrible effort, Caeled forced himself to reach
    into the jellied ruin and extract the ring, which he hastily
    dropped onto a table. The touch of what had been his
    mot-her's flesh made him shudder; he wiped off any traces
    from his fingers, fighting down returning nausea.
     Then he went to the battered cupboard that held their
    few clothes and took out his other homespun tunic and
    woollen trousers. His "best" clothing, they were nominally
    newer and less patched than the ones he wore. He
    changed into them and pulled on his only pair of soft
    leather boots again, cross-gartering them to hold them on
    his legs '
     He wrapped the long strip of worn leather he used for
    a belt twice around his waist, fastened it securely, and
    wedged the handle of his slingshot beneath it. Then he
    gazed around the room, wondering if there was anything
    else he should take with him. Firestrikers, of course! The
    only knife their household had possessed, with a dull
    blade and broken handle. Still it was a knife; his mother
    had not liked for him to handle knives but she could not
    object any more. Finally he picked up a bent tin spoon
    that had served as a toy soldier in his childhood fantasies.
    With the faintest of smiles, he added it to the collection.
     From a piece of coarse sacking they had used for a
    towel he fashioned a pack for his back to hold his few
    possessions. Then he found himself staring at the ring on
    the table by his mother's bed. He reached for it; drew his
    hand back; finally picked it up.
     With a piece of twine he hung the ring around his
    neck, thrusting it down inside his tunic so no one would
    notice it and try to rob him.
     If there was anyone. Anywhere.
    
     Perhaps in the ruins of the town he would find some
    hidden hoard of coins or a few valuable trinkets, though he
    doubted if there was anything that remained edible. He
    would take whatever he could find; why not?
     Caeled squared his thin shoulders resolutely. From his

    




    20
    
    SILVERHAND
    
    mother he had learned the art of survival. He would g
    scavenging and then leave the town forever. There
    nothing for him here anymore. Wrapping himself in h
    only cloak to try to stop the shivering that wracked hi
    Caeled took one long last look around the room.
    
      By the time the boy left the tenement, the fire he
    set beneath his mother's bed had taken hold. The ancie
    wooden structure was engulfed in flame as he wall
    away from it, not looking back. Tears were pouring d
    Caeled's cheeks but he was unaware of them. The ho
    experiences of the day had left him numb. He could o
    walk, setting one foot ahead of the other, toward
    uncertain future.
      His final act before leaving Ward Point was to build
    piles of wood and rotten timbers in various places alo
    the High Street and laneways and set fire to them, too.
    nightfall the whole town would be cleansed, burned
    the ground. Caeled thought it a fitting pyre.

    




    CHArTIER THREE
    
     In his youth he could have felled the tree with a single
    mighty swing of the axe. But his youth was long gone, and
    age and experience had taught him to conserve his
    energ. He now used half a dozen carefully placed blows
    to bring the stonewood crashing to the earth. Setting
    aside his felling axe, Papul took satisfaction in the
    knowledge that although he was nearing his half century,
    he could still do the work of two ordinary men.
     Pulling a trimming axe from his belt, the huge man
    began lopping off the branches and piling them on a
    roughly made sledge. He labored methodically through-
    out the afternoon, taking pleasure in the simple repetitive
    work.
     By the time the light began to fade the sledge was
    heaped with wood which he had trimmed to even lengths.
    He secured it with stout cords, checking each knot as he
    drew it tight. He worked swiftly, unwilling - despite his
    size and strength - to be out in the forest at night. He
    would return with the dawn and continue chopping up
    the tree. The task should be done by nightfall, and then
    he would have firewood for the next three days; more, if
    the weather was kind.
     Shouldering his big felling axe, Papul dragged the
    sledge behind him along the rough pathway he had
    hacked through the forest, heading back to the cave he
    now called home. The noise of his passage disrupted the
    'woodland tranquillity but he considered that a blessing:

    




    22
    
    SILVERHAND
    
    The noise should keep away all but the most cu
     A sliver of crescent moon was caught in the
    fingers of the trees. Papul raised his axe in s
    Lady Lussa would protect him.
     The big man smiled at the irony. Less than a
    he had been burning Elementalists .
    
                                                         . . and
    supposed he had become one. Once he had be
    High Priest of Duetism. Then he had become
    Heretic - and all because of the love of a wo
    had been prepared to give up even/thing for he
    she betrayed him. Now he was simply Papul, s
    called the Hermit.
     But at least he was safe here in this remote
    in time, he knew, civilization would forget hi
    even the twins would forget him. Initially, he
    surprised that they did not come after him, bu
    realized they would probably consider a life spe
    punishment enough.
     Once - only a cycle ago, two seasons:
    cold - he had been one of the most import
    one of the most ' powerful cities in the world,
    beyond number to do his bidding. He had sle
    sheets, eaten the finest of foods, wom the m
    apparel. Now he grubbed for survival in the fore
      And he was happier.
     Here he had rediscovered his love of natur
    beauty to be found in simplicity. His great stre
    had withered in the effete court, had gradually
    to him. He had established a sense of being in
    his true deity. God was all around hi
    earth, fragrancing the air, singing in the
      God was everywhere.
      Except in the Voids.
     Papul stopped, peering through the trees. On
    mysterious flaws in the landscape lurked in the
    the forest, a pocket of desolation.
      Void.

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    I
    
     Throughout his life he had pondered the existence of
    the Voids. There were a hundred theories, another
    hundred "true explanations," and not a day went by
    without yet another discovery being announced by some
    self-styled expert. But in truth no one knew ... because
    there was nothing to know about the Voids. They were
    simply emptiness. As dark is opposite to light, they were
    the reverse of being.
     He gazed toward this Void now, torn as usual between
    curiosity and the repulsion the Voids engendered. The
    latter won out as it always did.
     Time to go home.
     The big man was turning away when something
    sparkled in the heart of the Void. Papul stopped. Was
    there unaccustomed light in the emptiness, or was it
    simply his imagination?
     He watched for a few moments, saw nothing, and was
    moving away when the light ffickered again. Abandoning
    the loaded sledge, Papul hefted his felling axe in his two
    g ,
    big hands and turned to face the Void.
     Stars!
     Tiny incandescent stars, red and yellow and green,
    pinwheeling within the emptiness.
     Flames!
     Streaks and sparks of blue and green fire spiralling in
    the distance.
     The lights were beautiful, like oil on water. The colors were
    sinuous, almost liquid. The hermit knew he should be afraid,
    but instead he felt only irresistible fascination. Was he
    witnessing a natural but thus far unreported phenomenon,
    something which happened to every Void? Or was this an
    unprecedented event? He had read that the Voids constantly
    changed in nature through the years. There was one school of
    thought which held that the Voids were not meant to be empty
     I , at A but doorways to another time and place. It was only
    Iffirough misuse that the nature of the Voids had altered - or so
    some said.
    
    MLI
    W- W'"

    




      This particular Void no longer appeared empty. Papu'
    took a step closer. There was something within, some.
    thing that burned with cold fire. He turned his head
    pulling thick hair away from his ear so he coul(
    concentrate on a sound that had no place in the forest. I
    note as of music, high and sweet, like the song of a ba
    
      It was coming from the Void. Papul stepped out fror
    the cover of the trees and cautiously approached the Voic
    He listened intently as the musical note altered an
    became something else, something strangely ... familia
    It was a sound he had heard before, long ago ... he cou ' I
    not quite remember where, but he would in a m(
    
    ment . . . something akin to a heartbeat, an ocean
    
    roaring, a cadenced throbbing. It was the sound of...
      White light flared at the core of the Void.
      Growing.
      And with the light came the Scream.
      For Papul, the White Scream began with that hig
    musical note that at first beguiled, then besieged his he~
    until it became a brutal invasion ripping through I
    brain. Sound magnified past the point of pain,
    resonated in his skull and bones, threatening to pulveri
    them. No noise had ever been so excruciating. It seem,
    to come as much from within as without, a caeopho
    generated inside him and played on his own eardrur
    battering them to a pulp.
      Taking him over body and spirit.
      The Scream, the White Scream! The big man writh
    in torment.
      Then his eyes were drawn to the light again - so cc
    so beautiful and pure - and in his dissolving biain
    thought he might escape the Scream by entering
    light.
      Papul was reaching toward the light when the Sere
    vibrated through the bones of his hand, taking cont
    The axe rose of its own volition. Its wood handle dissol

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scoff
    
    Sit
    
    25
    
    into shme; the metal head crashed to the ground. But
    Papul saw none of this. His bulging eyes were fixed in
    disbelief on the disintegration of his arm. His flesh was
    turning into a stinIdng jelly that promptly liquified and
    poured from him like dirty water. He tried to cry out but
    he had no breath.
     He died with the White Scream in his ears; the Scream
    born from the sound he had almost recognized.

    




    CHArTER fOVR
    
      He had no idea where he was going, no idea wh
    was going to do. He was cold, so cold ... and em
    bereft of whatever warmth had once sustained him.
      When the realization finally struck Caeled he s
    and wrapped his arms around his chest, hugging him
    in a vain attempt to find comfort. He felt h
    Everyone he had known was gone. All those people
    those lives, snuffed out. His mother too was gone,
    with her his past.
      Eventually he forced himself to walk on, keeping to
    road and heading south. No matter how far his mo
    had brought him - and they had wandered through
    of the Seven Nations - she had always promised that
    day they would return to the flower-fragrant Southl
    of his birth and start afresh. He had ceased believin
    that particular dream by the time of his eighth N
    Day, but he suspected his mother had never s
    believing. Sometimes, when she couldn't sleep or she
    drunk herself sober, she used to sit wrapped up in
    blanket and talk about her plans. She was going to re
    to the Southlands and establish a dancing school there
      She boasted of having once danced for Los-Lo
    though Caeled knew that was untrue, one of the sto
    she made up to cheer herself in a cheerless e.-dste
    When her school was successful, she insisted, they wo
    want for nothing. Absolutely nothing. His mother
    sometimes wept as she spoke, but he never knew whe

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    I -
    
    27
    
    she was weeping for her vision of the future, or because
    she knew it would never be.
     Now Caeled's feet carried him southward as if to fulfill
    a promise. When he got to the Southlands he would ...
     His thoughts crashed to a halt. He did not know what
    he was going to do.
     He did not even know how far it was to the Southlands.
    They lay beyond the Seven Nations, once very dangerous
    territory for anyone to cross. The Seven Nations were
    reputed to be at peace now for the first time in many
    cvcles, but his knowledjae of theinzeoaraphy was based on
    
    the fading memories of a young child. T ere were some
    forests. And some mountains. And a vast plain under a
    sweeping, empty sky, with no roads or trackways, just a
    Aderness of windblown grass. Could he find his way
    through to the Southlands?
     Even supposing he made it, what then? He was nearly
    fourteen summers and unskilled. If he survived the
    
    journey, he would end up a slave or a soldier.
     But they were worries for another day. Right now he
    was cold and hungry and he simply did not care.
     Trying to fight back emotions too powerful to deal
    with, the boy continued down the road. One foot after the
    other. He hardly noticed the landscape on either side, the
    stretches of swampland, the occasional stands of un-
    healthy vegetation, leaves lost to giantism, too thick, too
    lush, so they drooped on their stalks and lay on the earth
    to rot. The encroaching forests pressed close to the road,
    as if to smother any life that came along.
     When the rain began to fall, needle-thin and chilling,
    he tilted his face up, letting the downpour dilute his tears
    and wash the grime from his skin and hair. He filled his
    mouth with fresh water then spat it out, ridding himself of
    the taste of death that had coated his tongue ever since
    Ward Point.
     The shock of the icy rain roused him and he realized
    night was drawing down; purple and black clouds were

    




    28
    
    SILVERHAND
    
    massing on the horizon and flickering with lightning. He
    had to find shelter soon; these forests were reputed to
    harbor ancient evil. Creatures of nightmare that had
    assumed legendary status in the Southlands were com-
    monplace here.
      But where was he going to find shelter in such a lonely,
    unfamiliar place? The road on which he stood was his
    only link to civilization, but there was no protection out in
    the open.
      The roadway, a badly maintained portion of the King
    Road, supposedly ran all the way to the High Gate of
    Barrow, capital of the Seven Nations. Caeled and his
    mother had come north to Ward Point along this road,
    travelling with a caravan of grain merchants. His mother
    had paid for their passage by cooking for the caravan
    drivers. He recalled sitting on a splintery plank seat
    beside a heavily armed wagon driver, as an endless dreary
    countryside unfolded around them. Much of it was
    scrubby marshlands, bracketed east and west by the
    mountain ranges of Spine and Skull.
      To alleviate his own boredom, the driver had taught
    Caeled the names of the constellations that wheeled
    overhead in the night sky. He had also regaled his young
    passenger with stories of the creatures that lived in the
    marshes, creatures that had once been human but were
    now no better than beasts, beasts who retained a
    dangerous degree of human intelligence.
      Caeled had not believed him then, but now, standing
    alone on the same road with night falling, he could almost
    feel the eyes of those beasts watching him balefully,
    hungrily.
      He recalled other stories he had heard in Ward P6int:
    tales of travellers who rode out and never returned - at
    least in human form; of whole caravans which had simply
    vanished; of a contingent of the Watch, ten heavily armed
    men who had gone in search of what they thought was a
    rabid dog. But the mad dog had turned out to be one of

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    29
    
    the Clan Allta, the werebeasts. About the time they
    realized this the hunters had become the hunted. Four of
    them were torn apart and another three fatally savaged
    before the creature was slain. The three badly mauled
    survivors had been burnt alive in the town square so they
    would have no chance to spread the infection.
     Caeled knew that if he remained on the road, he would
    not survive to see the dawn. Even if the werebeasts
    missed him, the beasts of flesh and blood which lived and
    hunted in the marshlands would not. There were wolves
    aplenty, murderous wild boar and savage marsh lions. On
    this cold air the salt tang of his sweat and fear would cany
    for a great distance.
     He hurried on down the pitted roadway, looking left
    and light, thankful to have something to occupy his mind.
    He was looking for an outcropping of rocks, perhaps a
    cave - no, not a cave - a clump of bushes, a place to
    hide, rest and think.
     Dusk was descending by the time he found a doubtful
    haven
     The temperature had fallen dramatically. His fingers
    were so stiff he could hardly feel them, so he crossed his
    arms over his chest and tucked his hands into his armpits,
    seeldng what little warmth he could find. In the distance a
    wolf howled. it was immediately answered by a marsh
    hon's ragged cough. The nearness of that cough startled
    Caeled and he inadvertently stepped off the road, only to
    sink ankle-deep in sticky mud. Off to his right he spotted
    a stand of needlefern trees crowning a grassy knoll,
    appealing like an oasis in the swale. Needlefern trees
    were far from his first choice as sanctuary, but with marsh
    lions about he had little choice, he had to get off the
    ground.
     Pulling himself free from the mud, he ran to the knoll
    and scrambled up it. Brittle bones cracked and snapped
    underfoot as he scurried toward the trees. Caeled
    crouched and picked up a tiny bird's skull that glimmered

    




    30
    
    SILVERHAND
    
    like ivory in the fading light. No scrap of leathery flesh o
    feathered skin clung to it; almost immediately the skul
    crumbled to powder beneath the pressure of his fingers
    He tilted his head back and looked up. In the twilight h
    could just barely see the numerous pathetic remains o
    birds that had become impaled on the trees' poisonou
    needles. During daylight the trees looked like innocuou
    giant ferns, but at night finger-length, razor-sharp spine
    sprang open amid the dense foliage, turning every tre
    into a deadly trap. In this barren countryside, th
    carnivorous trees survived on the creatures they speared.
      Rain had made the bark slippery, and Caeled climbe
    with infinite care into the lower branches of the neares
    tree. If he touched one of the spines within its concealin
    tracery of sensitive fronds, the rest would attack hi
    Their virulent poison was capable of killing a human. I
    was claimed that some of the barbaric tribes beyond th
    Forests of Thusal sacrificed criminals on needlefern tree
    condemning them to a lingering, excruciating death.
      The tree was beginning to awaken as Caeled ginge
    settled into a saddle-shaped crotch among the branche
    He pulled off his belt and looped it around a bran
    before retying it around his waist. He did not expect t
    sleep, but if he did doze off, at least he would not fall int
    the foliage.
      His backpack served as a pillow; his cloak became h-
    blanket. When he had made himself as comfortable
    possible he nestled down and watched with wide eyes
    the fern fronds around him unfurled like open
    disclosing deadly weapons. By the time darknes
    trees and he could see no more, Caeled was secu
    behind a protective barricade of thousands of pois6noi
    needles.
      The rustling of the foliage eventually lulled him into
    doze. He was vaguely aware of wolves howling in tl
    distance, and there were other, less distinguishable crie
    hunter and hunted in the surrounding marshlands, but

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    31
    
    spite of this he sank further and further into sleep. At last
    there was nothing, only blackness, only peace.
     He awoke with a start. Something was thrashing in the
    branches in front of his face. Hot salty liquid spattered
    across his mouth. Then the trapped creature ceased to
    struggle and Caeled heard the dripping of blood. A
    pungent meaty odor made him aware that he hadn't eaten
    in a long time. He was reaching blindly for the bird - he
    assumed it was a bird - impaled on the spikes, when he
    heard the distinctive sound of hooves on stone.
     Caeled twisted his body so he could peer around the
    trunk of the tree, but he could see nothing through the
    foliage below. Only by looking up was there any view.
    Clouds raced across the sky, skimming past the Lady
    Lussa in her phase as a slender curved maiden.
     The hoofbeats: were coming nearer.
     There were stories of Dullahan who haunted the King
    Road, headless horsemen on headless horses, who
    whipped out the eyes of passers-by with metal-tipped
    whips.
     Through the branches of the tree Caeled caught a
    glimpse of blue sparks being struck off the stones in the
    road by iron horseshoes. Then the solid thud of hoofbeats
    stopped, replaced by a liquid squelch. A horse snorted at
    unfamiliar footing. Caeled realized the horseman had left
    the road and was approaching the stand of trees, riding
    toward the knoll through deep mud.
     Maybe it was just another traveller, seeking shelter like
    himself But what would any sane person be doing on
    sue a demon-haunted road at night?
     Then a random fragment of breeze brought Caeled the
    smell of the horse, a sweaty odor ihat reassured him; at
    least the horse was real, so its rider was no ghost. A
    brigand then, a road bandit? A cannibal?
     Caeled's eyes were of little use in the darkness; he was
    thankful that he had other sharp senses. His nostrils
    flared as he attempted to sort through the odors of the

    




    32
    
    SILVERHAND
    
    night. He identified the scents of needlefern trees and
    marsh mud, the smell of blood and feathers from the
    dead bird nearest him, and, faint but growing stronger,
    the metallic tang of armor and a whiff of clean human
    flesh.
      A human rider I then: someone who had recently
    bathed. A noble, a huntsman. But there was poor hunting
    in this region.
      Leather creaked as the rider dismounted. Heavy feet
    crushed the litter of bones on the ground. Metal rasped as
    a sword was drawn. An armored cuirass scraped againsi
    the trunk of Caele&s tree.
      He tried to make himself as small as he could; invisible
    melting into the needlefern. Its dangers at least wer(
    known and understood.
      The voice, when it came, was muffled by a helm. 11
    wait for you here, boy. You can come down when the sui
    rises."

    




    CHArTER fIVIE
    
     Breast to breast and lip to lip they lay together in the
    taU grass. Their tongues played a tender game: lick, taste,
    caress, seek more deeply. They exchanged breath.
     Hot wind whispered through the grass.
     They whispered promises, murmured phrases intended
    to excite as fingers stroked, teased, fondled.
     The wind sighed into silence. The sun blazing over-
    head briefly darkened, as if a cloud crossed its face.
     In tall grass, small creatures that hunted and slew one
    another felt the whisper of gathering power and fled.
     The pair lying together in the grass soon forgot their
    surroundings. The summer meadow, the distant snow-
    capped mountains, the azure sky were nothing more than
    constructs from their imagination, a drearnscape for
    passion.
     Their bodies pressed closer, striving for the ultimate
    union. The woman straddled the man and controlled her
    own emotions while she worked to heighten his. This was
    the oldest magic in the world, the first magic ...
     She bent over her lover and trailed her long hair across
    his naked chest. Her mouth closed on his; she murmured
    a single word around his questing tongue. A word of
    power.
     The sound of the word in their joined mouths inflamed
    him.
     The air around them trembled as if disturbed.
     In the distance the mountains faded to shadows.

    




    34
    
    SILVERHAND
    
    Patches of gray began to appear through the delicate
    eggshell blue of the sky.
      He pressed closer to her, demanding, but she laid her
    fingers across his lips. 'Wait." The command burned like
    a hot coal.
      The woman resumed the rhythm of the ritual, min~
    and body working as one, senses heightened to an almosi
    painful degree. This was the most delicate moment, wher
    passion and power trembled on the brink and could s(
    easily be destroyed.
      She repeated the word. The single syllable tore a tin,
    hole in the fabric of space between the two lovers.
      The world darkened perceptibly. All their concentra
    tion was now on one another.
      When the woman said the word a third time her passio
    leaped inside her, refusing to be restrained any longer. A
    plunged against him and the man felt the quivering of hE
    tissues, the clenching of her muscles. Gasping with ecstac
    he allowed his own passion to take him then.
      The air around them boiled, the atmosphere charge
    with the coming of a mighty storm.
      Stilled, they remained unsatisfied. The desire fo ' r unic
    did not abate but became even greater, tantalizing the
    with promises of an unreachable paradise where fragmer
    of an ultimate pattern coalesced out of the shadows.
      As they struggled anew to weld their bodies into oi
    body, one inseparable unit, the lovers writhed in a gr
    dreamscape. The images they had so carefully crea
    were now all washed away. Only their personal aui
    remained, pulsing prismatically.
      The pair shuddered in unison as another orgasm ripp]
    through them. Their joined aura turned opalescerit w
    heat. it expanded, rainbow colors blending into a mindl,
    force fed by the magic of the pair at its center. Then W
    the sound of something tearing, it pulled free.
      A swirling ball. of cold light appeared in the air betw(
    the lovers, close enough to brush their lips with its

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    35
    
    surface. Their moist hot breath imbued it with life.
     For a third time, passion convulsed them. This time
    they cried aloud together, shouting the ancient word into
    the heart of the sphere.
     The word stabbed into the shimmering white ball that
    was not a ball but a ravening emptiness, a terrible
    rapacious vacuum. Gathering force, the sphere began to
    whirl until it spiralled outward on a wave of desire.
    Voracious. Devouring.
     Only life - rich, vibrant, bloody life - could assuage
    its terrible hunger.
    
     "You were right, little brother. We've done it. Come
    back to me now so we can celebrate together."
     Lares fixed on the sound of his sister's voice. In the sere
    and shifting dreamscape it was a beacon of solidity,
    anchoring him, calling him, pulling him home.
     "Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."
     Lares concentrated on the sound, listening to the
    words, and as he deciphered their meaning, he grew
    increasingly conscious of his body, of the weight of flesh
    and muscle and bone that pulled him down and impris-
    oned his incorporeal being.
     "Squeeze my hand."
     Using her voice to guide him, he dragged himself out
    of a pit of exhaustion. He had been gone from his physical
    body for so long that the ties which bound body and spirit
    together had become dangerously weak.
     The pounding of his heart threatened to shatter him.
     "Squeeze my hand."
     Flesh. Cold flesh encased his naked body, constrict-
      confining. Lares became aware of the discomforts of
    having skin, the itch of hair on his skull and cheeks, the
    raw agony of pressure on his elbows and heels. Air blew
    across his sweat-damp forehead, its touch burningly
    cold. He lay suffering, unable to move until the painful
    acuity of heightened senses faded. ,

    




    36
    
    SILVERHAND
    
      Then he recognized silk sheets covering -his body and
    warm fingers clasping his.
      "Squeeze my hand."
      Lares exerted all his strength. His forefinger twitched.
      Relieved laughter filled the room. "So you are alive. I
    thought I'd lost you this time." Sarers voice was light and
    bantering, but he could detect her concern. Still unable
    to open his eyes, Lares visualized his sister's face, identi-
    cal in every feature to his, like looking into a mirror.
    Their subjects could not tell the twins apart, could not
    distinguish male from female, so lately Sarel had taken
    to wearing her amber hair long and flowing, while Lares
    worked his into two tight braids.
      Now the corners of her violet eyes were creased with
    concern, and her lips drawn into a bloodless line.
      She continued speaking, murmuring softly, using her
    voice as a lifeline to draw him back to his body.
      "I've been so worried. ever since you failed to returr
    from the Aethyra with me."
      "How long... " he mumbled.
      "You've been gone three days now. You've lost a lot o
    weight and . . . " Her fingers traced the line of his rib~
    'This is a danger we must be aware of. We,must sta
    closer together, not allow anything to separate us."
      He heard her moving around. Then water, tastin
    faintly of perfume, was dripped between his lips. LarE
    regained enough strength to open his mouth and exten
    his swollen tongue, letting the liquid flow down h
    parched throat. Its taste was as sweet as nectar.
      "The desert experiment was a success, and now m
    know we can duplicate it." Sarel continued. 'We cC-
    control the Voids and move them from place to place.-
    the physical world - though the cost is great in terms
    our energy. We must find ways to counter the debilitc
    ing effect on us. But once a Void locates life it feeds, w
    its own power grows."
      Lares finally summoned the strength to open his ey(

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    37
    
    The chamber was filled with a radiant light that came
    from no identifiable source. Sarel's face swam into view;
    his face replicated, yet infinitely more dear to him.
     'The heretic," he croaked, and watched as Sarel's lips
    drew back from her teeth in a smile of pure pleasure.
     'Tapul the Heretic. Aaah, but that was sweet, so
    sweet," she said softly, leaning forward to kiss her brother.
    'The lights in the heart of the forest Void drew him
    closer - that was a master stroke. The ruse used
    practically no energy and it excited his curiosity without
    frightening him away. And when he was close enough . . .-
    Sarel laughed. "The look on his face! Horror; dismay.
    Thus end all heretics. But, and more importantly, the
    experiment proved that the Voids can be controlled with
    precision, plucking a single man from a forest without
    touching any of the other forms of life around him."
     Drawing the sheet away from her brother's naked body,
    Sarel began to cleanse him with warm scented towels.
    "But the town was the triumphant conclusion of the
    experiment," she went on. "An entire town, twelve
    hundred souls, devastated in less than a dozen heartbeats.
    And again, with practically no effort. Once the Void was
    enlivened, no one could stand against it!"
     Sarel cupped her hands around her brother's gaunt
    face and looked into his eyes, seeing herself mirrored in
    them. 'Think of it, Lares, think of it. We have proved that
    the Voids can be controlled ... and if we control the Voids
    we control the world!"
     Lares caught his twin and pulled her down on top of
    him, feeling warmth and energy from her body soak into
    his, replenishing him.
     'We can make and remake the world . he whis-
    
    pered.
     "Shaping it in our own image!"

    




    CHArTER SIX
    
      Shon'sen was Madra A11ta, of the Clan Allta.
      Unlike many of those who wore the dog form he felt
    bitterness, no anger at the quirk of fate that had tun
    him into one of the werefolk. There were times when
    thought it was actually preferable. He had been a bep
    in Ward Point for most of his human life, consta
    hungry, frequently cold, stealing what he could, wher
    could, to survive. He realized now that he had only E
    surviving, not living. But now - now he was living!
      When the dog bit him, at first he had been un
    cerned. He had survived the bites of rats, snakes,
    spiders without contracting so much as a fever, and
    once found the corpse of a cat which died shortly
    biting him. He boasted that his vermin-infested be~
    flesh had poisoned the feline, so he expected to suffi
    ill effects from a mere dog bite.
      But the bite proved more dangerous than he expe,
      He had been bitten in the silent hour before the (
    when in his sleep he rolled over onto a stray canin(
    had crept into the crawl space beneath the taver
    noon he felt sick and dizzy, but he blamed hunge-
    the change in atmosphere occasioned by an appro-
    storm. B ven;i g he was burning with fever,. his fl,
    hot that Yge fl es of the blizzard exploded into
    when they touched his skin. His last clear memory
    falling - which had seemed to go on forever - I
    landing was cushioned by a snowbank.

    




    ML,
    
    Morgan Llywelyn & Michaei Scott
    
    39
    
     Later he would wonder if he had actually died that
    night.
     When he awoke the following morning at first he
    thought himself blind. Then he discovered he was buried
    in a snowdrift. His open eyes gazed into a darkness that
    gradually became luminous, until he realized he was
    seeing distant daylight through snow. Snow over his head,
    over his face, pressing against him, making breathing
    difficult but not impossible. A small air space e3dsted in
    front of his nose where the ice had been melted by his
    breath. But he could not stay there long; a man would
    freeze to death in a snowbank!
     Scrambling out of the drift, he had found himself near
    the middens at the edge of town. The odor of dung and
    refuse should have been blanketed by the heavy snow-
    fall, yet surprisingly he could smell the middens clearly.
    But the scent was not disgusting; he was astonished to
    find it intriguing, even pleasant. He wrinkled his nose in
    appreciation.
     It was only as he crawled away that he had discovered
    he was walldng on all fours. The hair on his arms and legs
    had coarsened and lengthened; the flesh and bones of his
    hands and feet had melded into misshapen paws. When
    he eventually found a puddle of melted snow and gazed
    into it, the mask of a beast looked back: a frighteningly
    canine visage, yet with some of the characteristics of a
    human face still visible beneath the fur.
     Shon'sen knew then what he had become: Madra Allta,
    werecreature, condemned to wear the form of a beast
    except for the brief period when the Lady Lussa rode
    round-bosomed through the heavens. Only then he could
    regain a shambling semblance of his human form.
     The first few days had been hardest as he struggled to
    come to terms with his new identity, but soon Shon'sen,
    formerly a weak and miserable beggar, discovered the
    advantages of his new body.
      For the first time in his life he felt truly alive.

    




    40
    
    SILVERHAND
    
      He was stronger than he had ever been, and f&~
    senses were extraordinarily keen. He ate voraciousl~
    snug inside his shaggy coat and rutted without inh
    among females of his new clan.
      There were other werebeasts in the wilderness I
    the towns, mostly boar-folk and dog-folk and thosE
    wolf kind. He even heard stories of weresnakes ('
    the marshlands. In time his human consciousness~
    fade and he would become more like an animal, bi
    he retained human intelligence and cunning,
    them to the fullest to facilitate his hunting.
      He had come upon the spoor of the horse b
    earlier. A well-fleshed beast, carrying either a
    weight or a heavily armored rider. The latter, he
    by scouting the horseman's camp when the man I
    take a midday meal. As he crouched in the unde
    the werebeast observed a big man wearing a
    cuirass reinforced with bronze bosses, and a heln
    only took off his head while eating a sparse
    smoked fish and dried fruit. The horseman was E
    with a bladed weapon of some sort in a scabbai
    boar spear was strapped to his saddle pack.
      Shon'sen bared his teeth in a feral grin. A I
       wn_,_11c1'k__eey him in meat for a ten-day. H
    flooded with saliva as he thought of fresh fooa
    with Me: horse meat and human flesh. The U
    had eaten had been dead for four clays and b
    fight a jackal for it.
     The werebeast stalked the man patiently,
     out of sight, content to allow his senses of
     hearing to keep him informed. He felt certa
     where the horseman must be heading. Wan
     the only town in this direction.
     The beast had been pleased when the rains
     it meant the rider would be forced to break
     and there were few places along the road that
     any shelter. But there was a grove of trees...

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    41
    
     The werebeast was waiting, submerged in a pool of
    stagnant marsh water with only his nose and the tips of his
    ears showing, when the rider arrived at the stand of
    needleferns fifty paces off the King Road.
     The immobile Shon'sen controlled himself with inhu-
    man patience, allowing the horseman time to make
    himself comfortable and lower his guard.
     When enough time had passed the werebeast raised
    his head cautiously. Golden eyes flared, adjusting to the
    night, the world in monochrome hues. The horse, a
    chunky gray gelding, was hobbled well away from the
    needleferns, while the man was barely visible sitting with
    his back to one of the trees, head slumped on his chest.
     Shon'sen's mouth gaped open. Ropy tendrils of saliva
    dripped from his lips into the marsh water.
    ?.. The man had built no fire, erected no physical barriers
    or magical wards; he obviously believed he was safe in this
    wilderness. The werebeast retained enough of his human
    intellect to appreciate the tactical advantages of the
    location the horseman had chosen for himself. Any
    approach would be difficult. Even a creature like
    Shon'sen would be unable to move through the sticky
    mud that surrounded the knoll without his feet making
    small sucking sounds that betrayed his presence.
     Shon'sen sank back into the water, making plans. Soon
    it would be dawn and the needleferns would close their
    spines, The resulting sounds of crackling asid rustling
    could be used to mask his approach.
     Shon'sen would have fresh meat in his belly before
    noon.
    
     Caeled leaned out of the tower vAndow, watching
    beautiful lights flickering in the core of the Void. But the
    crumbling stone beneath him gave way, pitching him
    forward and down...
     The boy awoke with a violent start. When he realized
    where he was, he was astonished to find he had actually

    




    42
    
    SILVERHAND
    
    fallen asleep, and appalled to realize he had slipped oui c
    the crotch of the tree. Only his belt had saved him froi
    tumbling face first into the deadly needles. With an effo:
    he pulled himself up again, then leaned back against tf
    trunk, heart hammering.
      "Are you all right, boy?"
     The voice startled Caeled still more. In his dazed ar
    exhausted state he had forgotten about the man at the fo
    of the tree. He realized now that this was the second tir
    the horseman had called him "boy" . . . but how did'
    know Caeled was a boy? Had he seen him? Followed hirr
     Without replying, Caeled shifted into a more comfo
    able position and resettled his pack in the small of '.
    back. A sharp object dug into his spine. He reached ol
    his shoulder, fumbled in the pack, and pulled it out. Itv
    the crude toy soldier he had fashioned from a warped
    spoon. He had once imagined himself a soldier, a bra
    proud warrior out of legend, riding a magnificent stalli
    doing battle with monsters and werecreatures while
    mother looked on in admiration.
     Then he had learned that the worst monsters woi
    human form, and many of these were soldiers. He
    been ten when he and his mother fled Haral&s 0
    three days before the Marocan army stormed througl
    their way to the coast to put down some Island Cors
    They had watched from the safety of the hills as the I
    of soldiers, so grand and fine in their crimson
    alabaster uniforms, had raped and looted the nei
    town. Caeled had put away his toy that day and -D
    played with it since.
      Leaning forward, he peered down through
    branches and wondered what sort of man crouched a
    foot of the tree.
      Caeled started as the needlefern creaked in a i
    wind, and his former toy tumbled from his fingen
    heard it ping off metal below, followed by a gru
    surprise from the man.

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    43
    
     The tree grew more agitated. The wood crackled, the
    leaves whispered hungrily to themselves. Fragile bird
    bones snapped, flesh tore like old cloth as the tree
    finished devouring the night's catch. Caeled could now
    see leaves and branches appeanng before his face,
    gradually assuming shape and definition.
     "Sunrise, boy. The needlefern is sheathing its claws.
    You can come down now."
     Caeled looked down. He could make out the outline of
    the man below, the details becoming ever clearer. A heavy
    cloak was thrown back from the horseman's shoulders,
    revealing his metal-studded cuirass. A naked sword rested
    across his knees as he sat on the ground examining a
    battered piece of tin. Without looking up, he called, "You
    dropped this. What is it - a spoon?"
     "A soldier. I mean it used to be ... I mean it was a toy,"
    Caeled stammered.
     The stranger nodded. "A toy soldier. I can see that now.
    When I was younger I had a set of toy soldiers. I had an
    army for each of the Seven Nations," he added softly,
    turning the spoon over and over in his gloved hands.
     'What happened to them?" Caeled inquired as he was
    stealthily untying his leather belt from the tree and
    refastening it around his waist. He dug into his pack and
    found a gold coin he had taken from the ruin of a
    merchant's shop in Ward Point.
     Experience had taught him that those with gold could
    buy their way out of many things. If all else failed,
    perhaps he could bargain for his freedom.
     But he had rather run, and keep the gold.
     "I'm not sure," the man below was replying. "I played
    with them for many seasons, then I think they eventually
    passed to my brother."
     "I always wanted a set of soldiers," Caeled said. He
    needed to keep the stranger talking while he slid down
    the opposite side of the tree and ran off into the marsh.
            weighted man would not be able to follow.
    
    a
    
    k
    n
    S.
    
    s
    d
    al
    r
    
    e
    e
    
     9
    le
    0 f

    




    44
    
    SILVERHAND
    
    I once wanted to be a soldier myself," he added. "A'
    you a soldier?"
      "No," said the stranger, surprising him. "Many yee
    ago I followed that trade, but no longer." Caeled s]
    down the tree as silently as he could, holding his brea
    until he reached the ground. Dawn mist was coiling
    from the marsh; the air smelled of rank vegetati(
    Crouching, the boy surveyed his possible escape rou
    The thickening mist made his path uncertain, but
    knew he bad to avoid the bright green patches.
      "Come down now, boy. We have a long journey ah(
    of us."
      Caeled straightened and darted down the side of
    knoll, racing for the marsh ... and almost immedia
    sank to his waist in a pool of numbingly cold water.
      With a cry, the horseman lurched to his feet.
      Caeled grabbed a tuft of grass with one hand
    hauled himself out of the pool. His other hand stubbo
    continued to clutch the gold coin.
    
      "Boy! Don't be a fool! Come back here."
      Caeled stood erect, his heart pounding from
    escape.
      And the beast reared before him.
      The boy had a brief glimpse of fur and fang and y(
    knowing eyes before he felt the pain in his left I
    white-hot agony that numbed his entire arm.
    werebeast growled and slung its head from side to
    then something pale and bloody was dangling from its
    The creature hurled itself upon Caeled, solid m
    striking him in the chest and stomach, and he was falli
    falling ... falling. The creature was on t of hit
    smelled its stinking breath as it prepared for 7e IN 1
      Fleetingly Caeled wondered if he would se
    mother again, in whatever kingdom Death ruled.
      Then bone cracked and blood exploded in
    direction.

    




    ip
    n.
    ~e.         CHArTER SEVE4 N
    he
    ~ad          Caeled opened his eyes to find himself confronted by
                the blank featureless head of a monster.
    the          "Easy, boy, easy"
    ,ely         His vision swam, then cleared, and he realized he was
                looldng at a metal-studded leather helmet. Gloved hands
                appeared at the shadowy borders of his vision, gripped
    and         the helmet, pulled it off.
    Mly          "I'm Armadiel," said a voice Caeled had heard before.
                The boy glimpsed a blurred face sunnounted by a
                gleaming bald pate, then he lost consciousness again.
    
    his
    
    01
    'llow
    aand;
      The
    side;
     jaws
    veight
       6g
       He
    
    ol,e his
    
    every
    
     Pain stabbed him awake.
     Hot ice and cold fire tore through his body, pulsing in
    waves that surged up his arm and into his chest,
    paralyzing his muscles until it was impossible to scream.
     He dragged open gummy eyelids and tasted blood in
    his mouth. The bald man - Armadiel? - was crouching
    before him. For a few moments Caeled could make no
    sense of what was happening. One of his arms was
    stretched out straight, tightly held in Armadiel's grip ...
    and the man was gouging at ragged flesh with a
    short-bladed knife, peeling back skin ...
     Caeled opened his mouth to scream but the pain had
    robbed him of breath; the pain that rose in a solid black
    wave then came crashing down to engulf him.
    
    Some sort of pad soaked with cold water bathed his

    




    46
    
    SIOJERHAND
    
    eyes, applied with gentle, confident strokes that wor'
    outward from his nose, then upward to smooth
    forehead. He relaxed to the touch, letting it wash
    away from the shores of pain.
      More deliciously cool water was poured between
    lips. He gasped, choked, then swallowed gratef
    keeping his eyes closed. He did not want to see
    terrifying sights; he wanted only to concentrate on
    peace and the coolness.
      "It's time to wake up, boy."
      He heard a snap; an acrid odor filled his nos
    making him sneeze violently.
      Caeled's eyes flew open.
      The bald man was kneeling in the mud, facing hi
    thought I was going to lose you, boy." He stretchei
    his right hand, moving it before the boys face, and C
    winced at the bitter smell emanating from the bi
    stick between his fingers. But in some strange wa
    fumes cleared his head and enabled him to start thi
    again.
      'We have a decision to make, you and I," the
    continued in a conversational tone. Caeled stared a
    Incongruously, although the man's face was heavily
    with deep grooves along the sides of his nosi that I
    down the comers of his mouth, his bald skull %
    smooth as an apple and almost as rosy.
      Caeled licked dry lips, attempted to speak, swal
    hard and tried again. 'Who ...
      "I'm Armadiel."
      'What happened?"
      "A Madra Allta got you," The bald man g
    without humor, revealing crooked yellow teeth. R
    the thumb and forefinger of his right hand togeth(
    they almost met. 'The beast was this close to yoi
    when I blunted my sword on its skull."
    
    "Ma ... Madra Allta?" Caeled whispered in
    
    'Weredog?"

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    47
    
     "Aye. But it died a man," Armadiel said, turning,his
    head slightly to look at something.
     With an enormous effort Caeled twisted to follow the
    direction of the man's gaze. Crumpled on the ground was
    the dismembered and decapitated body of an unremark-
    able middle-aged man. The head lay nearby, sightless
    eyes staring. There was a vaguely familiar quality about
    the face, but it was difficult for Caeled to identify the
    features. They were distorted by terror and blood.
     "Madra Allta," Caeled said again. Something nibbled at
    the edge of his consciousness, sonwthing ...
     "It bit me!" he cried.
     Armadiel nodded. Keeping his eyes fixed on Caeled's
    face, he lifted the boy's left arm into view. The movement
    sent white-hot pain through Caeled's body, but the agony
    was so intense it became almost an abstraction, something
    separate and apart from his real self Caeled found he
    could look at the ruin of his left hand as if it belonged to
    someone else.
     The last two fingers and half of the palm had been torn
    away. An impression of the beast's teeth was clearly visible
    on the remaining flesh, which was already swollen and
    .turning bJack. Colorless ichor seeped from the wound. A
    leather strap had been bound very tightly about the wrist,
    and another was cinched just above the elbow. The area
    between them was also beginning to swell from the
    pressure.
     Caeled stared, trying to understand. Trying to remem-
    ber.
      "My hand. I had ... a coin in my hand. Gold. .
     'No coin now, and not much of a hand, either.
     . "Did the beast take my coin?" he asked, sounding
    aggrieved. His brain could only fix on one thought at a
    time, and it was easier to grieve over the loss of gold than
    the loss of... of...
     'Tou have a choice, boy,- said Armadiel in a matter-of-
    fact voice. "The Madra Allta bit you. I don't need to tell

    




    48
    
    SILVERHAND
    
    you what that means, do I? The corrupting poison is
    your hand. I think I've prevented it from spreading in
    your arm, but I can't be certain." He looked at tl
    mangled hand, then back into Caeled's horrified eyE
    "Unless we do something, you will become one of tJ
    Madra Allta. The only sure remedy is amputation." 1-
    touched the boy's forearm just below the elbow. "HerE
    think, to be safe."
      "No." Caele&s voice was a ragged whisper. Summoni
    all his strength, he shrieked, "No!"
      Ignoring the cry, Armadiel took a short-bladed skinni
    knife from the sheath on his belt. 'There are many w,
    to die. The werechange itself might kill you, or leave )
    neither man nor true werecreature but something
    between, more horrible than either.
      'The pain of twisted bones and warped muscles wo
    likely drive you mad even if you did survive. You wo
    end your days as a monstrosity, hated by all. Ot
    creatures would hunt you down, young and inexperien
    as you are. You would not survive one season, I car
    allow that.
      "But as I said, you have a choice. Three choices, in
    Where shall I cut? Wrist, arm, or neck?"
      There was a long silence. Then, 'Wrist," Caeled hi
    through clenched teeth.
      "What's that, boy?' The man bent closer. "I can't
    you.
      "Take it off... at the wrist."
      Armadiel frowned. "I'd prefer to cut higher, just
    certain."
      'Wrist."
      -if I take off only your hand and the werecl
    comes over you anyway, I will kill you at once," Arn
    assured him.
      "My choice. You said. just do it."
      The bald man nodded. "As you wish."
      Armadiel had built a fire in a circle of stones, an,

    




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    he added wood until the flames were leaping high. With
    his knife he cut a large rectangle of bark from the trunk of
    the needlefern. He then wrapped the moist bark around
    Caeled's arm, bending the material to form a sleeve. "The
    sap of the needlefern causes a degree of insensibility," he
    explained. "It will heJp dull the pain." Armadiel pushed a
    piece of wood into the boy's mouth. "Here, bite down on
    this. The sap will also numb your mouth and tongue, but
    there's no harm."
     Using the point of his knife, the man marked out the
    position of Caeled's wrist on the bark. Then he plunged
    the blade of the knife into the heart of the fire and held it
    there for several heartbeats.
      "Stand up," he commanded at last.
      Caeled came shakily to his feet.
      "Stretch out your hand, rest it against the tree trunk."
     Caeled extended his arm until his remaining fingertips
    were touching the needlefern. The pain in his hand
    became a riptide of agony that threatened to sweep his
    soul from his body. Colored spots danced before his eyes,
    and there was a high, buzzing sound in his ears. He was
    certain he was going to faint and longed for the escape.
     Metal rang as Armadiel pulled a short hacking sword
    from a scabbard affixed to his saddle.
     "If you hold very still, I can cut clean. Move, and I'll
    sheer into the bones at an angle and they may splinter.
    Ready?"
     Caeled managed a single nod. He felt as if all the blood
    in his body had drained into his stomach. Why did he not
    faint?
     "I'll count to four," Armadiel said. "One ... two .
    three... "
     The sword flashed through the air, whistling, and
    crashed into Caele&s arm like a bolt of lightning. Shock
    jellied the marrow in his bones. Blade bit through flesh,
    severed muscle and bone with a sound he would never
    forget.

    




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      Caeled toppled forward as what was left of his han(
    fell, twitching, to the ground. Armadiel caught him ii
    strong arms.
      'A"at happened to four?" the boy managed to whispe
    as the world spun around him and the buzzing in his eai
    became a mighty roar.
      He almost escaped into unconsciousness, only to corn
    screaming back when Armadiel cauterized. the woun
    with a white-hot knife blade.
    
    I

    




    I -
    
    CHArTER EIGHT
    
     "I bring extraordinary tidings, brothers! The prophecy
    is fulfilled."
     The library fell silent as the monks watched Brother
    Maseriel tap his way down the central aisle, blind white
    eyes roving over their faces as if he could see them.
     Brother Maseriel, Hieromonach of the order, seated
    himself in his gilded wooden chair before the Cabinet of
    Forbidden Books while the senior members of the Order
    of the Way ranged themselves around him, white-robed
    Seekers and red-robed Scholars, faces deferential, hands
    tucked into sleeves.
     'The boy is found," the old man announced. From long
    practice he could pitch his stentorian voice to the raftered
    ceiling high above; lesser members of the Order lined
    gallery rails on three levels, listening intently. 'The boy is
    found," Maseriel repeated. "Found god-marked and
    beast-touched as prophesied. And not a moment too soon."
     A low murmur ran around the galleries until, the old
    
    man rapped his staff on the flagstoned floor.
     "Now is the time of our greatest danger," the Hiero-
    monach continued. He raised a long-nailed forefinger to
    touch the red-rimmed edge of his "eye. "Sixty cycles ago I
    sacrificed my human sight in return for the ability to see
    beyond this physical realm. It is a decision I never
    regretted . . ." the old man drew in a breath that was
    almost a sob, "until now. Now I have w itnessed visions
    that would have destroyed a lesser man.
    
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     "I tell you, these are terrible times indeed, with t]
    Rule of Law but a memory. The Duet have begi
    experimenting with the Voids, and recently they have h
    some success manipulating and controlling the De
    Spaces for their own purposes, I am convinced th
    intend to enlarge the reign of disorder, to allow t
    humankind and beastfolk and all of nature to run riot!"
      Some of the monks gasped.
      The old man appeared to gaze sightlessly around 1
    long room, then raised his face to include the brother,
    the galleries. 'We cannot stand against the Duet. I
    now. But in time, when the expansion of their po)
    inevitably causes them to grow arrogant and careless,
    shall undertake the restoration of order. We must w
    toward that day, brothers."
      Maseriel sat taller in his chair and lifted his arm,
    edge of his robe sliding back to reveal tattooed spi
    encircling his wrist. "Five hundred generations ago,
    first Hieromonach founded this library. Now it houses
    sum total of human and inhuman knowledge. The I
    we need has to be here."
      He turned in his chair to point to the CabinE
    Forbidden Books behind him. "You all know that s(
    where within these millions of pages is recorded
    location of the Arcana. Generations have sought
    secret, but now that we have the boy, we must fir
    Redouble your efforts. The survival of myriad
    depends upon you."

    




    CHArTER NINE
    
     Caeled sat with his back to the trunk of the needlefern,
    cradling his throbbing arm in his lap as he watched
    Annadiel saddle the gray gelding. The horse was tense,
    skittish, snorting in explosive bursts, flaring his nostrils
    until their glistening pink lining showed, flicking his ears
    rapidly back and forth. His hooves danced in a tight
    circle; he t6ed to look in every direction at once with his
    sht-pupilled eyes.
     I know, I know," Armadiel murmured to the animal
    while keeping firm hold on the bridle reins. I know the
    predators are coming." He ran a soothing hand down the
    horse's neck, which was damp with nervous sweat. When
    he had calmed the gelding enough to trust it to stand still,
    he lifted his saddle of hand-tooled Galloway leather and
    positioned it carefully on the red leine saddle pad that
    protected the horse's back. The saddle, Caeled noticed in
    spite of his pain, was of curious design. A number of
    attachments were affixed to every available surface save
    the seat itself, including woven reed panniers, buckled
    leather bags, a canteen hanging from a thong, pouches
    and scabbards to contain the appurtenances a man might
    require for a long journey through dangerous territory.
     Marooned in the center of all these supplies like an
    island in a sea of debris, the saddle seat was split in half,
    keeping the rider's weight from pressing on the spine of
    the horse. With a very high pommel in front and an
    equally high cantle at the back, the saddle would hold a

    




    SILVERHAND
    
    rider snugly, with unusual security.
      it looks like a chair, thought Caeled dizzily. If I had
    saddle like that, I could ride a horse.
      The boy had never been on a horse; such a moi:
    seemed as far above him as the stars. But in his dreams
    heroic deeds he had always imagined himself bestridi
    just such a beast as this - and riding magnificently.
      So he tried, in spite of a coldness that was gradu.,
    creeping over him, to pay attention as Armadiel cb
    tight the leather cinch that held the saddle in place, tj
    doubled the end back and gave it a final yank to be cerl
    it would not slip. There was a smooth professional
    about the operation that betokened the experien
    horseman.
      Opening one of the panniers fastened to the cai
    Armadiel withdrew a leather breastcollar and a crul
    which he fastened fore and aft to keep the saddle f
    slipping. Both were set with metal bosses like thos4
    the man's cuirass and helm.
      Lastly, Armadiel fitted a sort of leather cap onto thi
    of the horse's head, over the bridle, pulling the ani~
    ears through two earholes. The leather was hE
    padded to protect the skull, with a sharp metal ~
    projecting from the center of the forehead like a I
    Thus caparisoned and helmeted, the gelding looked
    much the war horse. He arched his neck with new I
    his former nervousness giving way to an air of confid
      Keeping a firm hold on the reins, Armadiel w
    over to the needlefern and squatted before Caele(
    voice was gruff, but his eyes were sympathetic as h(
    "I know this is hard for you, boy, but we have to leai
    place. Tore ARta and Madra Allta are gathering,- the
    of blood draws them. I've heard a marsh hon coul
    very far away. If we stay here letting you rest for
    longer, they'll surely attack when night approaches;
      'We could make a fight of it, but this position
    invulnerable. While you and I might take refuge

    




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    tree, they'd feast off my horse . . . and I've no wish to
    sacrifice such a fine animal. It would be too painful to
    have to explain his loss. Besides," he added, only half in
    jest, "if werebeasts eat the horse we'll have to walk, and I
    hate walking."
     Caeled said nothing. His eyes were blank and glassy.
     Reaching out, Armadiel brushed the back of one hand
    down Caeled's face. The boy didn't even blink. Armadiel
    wondered if he was dangerously deep in shock. During
    the time the man had spent in the Healing Chapel in the
    College at Baddalaur, he had seen life-threatening shock
    following serious injuries, but he had neither the medi-
    cines nor the experience to cope with.such complications.
    The best help he could give the boy now was to get him to
    Baddalaur as quickly as possible.
     He kept talking to Caeled as he wrapped his own warm
    cloak around the unresponsive boy. The important thing
    was to try to hold some fragment of the boy's conscious-
    ness and keep him from slipping away too far to retrieve.
    'We might head south," Armadiel speculated aloud. "I
    know where there are some useful ruins, easily defensi-
    ble, with enough of an association with the Old Faith to
    help keep the beasts at bay. Or we can head north to
    Ward Point and
     Caeled's eyes suddenly focussed. "No," he said softly.
    Then his voice rose to a shrill scream. "No!"
     The scream sent a nearby flock of silvertails spiralling
    upward in alarm, while deep in the marsh Madra Allta
    howled and Tore Allta grunted and squealed. Then,
    ululating across the bleak landscape like the last voice left
    in an emptied world, came the unmistakable baying of
    
     Armadiel patted Caeled's uninjured shoulder. "South it
    is, then." Stooping, he lifted the boy and carried him to
    the horse. Caeled roused enough to clutch the pommel
    with his right hand and hold himself steady as the big man
    climbed up behind him with a clanldng of metal and

    




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    SILVERHAND
    
    creaking of leather. He lifted the panniers and tucked I
    thighs under them so he could give Caeled the sa&
    seat, while he straddled the horse's rump. Armadiel too)
    length of rope out of one of the panniers, looped
    around the boy and then tied it to his own waist. T
    binding would restrict him if they were attacked, but if
    were overcome then the boy's life was forfeit too.
      Armadiel clucked to the gelding, and the animal piel
    its reluctant way through the gooey mud and stand
    water separating the knoll from the road. When d
    reached the solid surface the man turned to glance brif
    toward the north. Ward Point lay just up the road in t
    direction, no more than a short gallop.
      But obviously something terrible had happened
    Ward Point, something that had driven the boy into
    dangerous wilderness and made the very mention of
    town enough to break through his pain and the effec
    the narcotic sticks.
      Armadiel turned the horse resolutely south, away f
    Ward Point. He relaxed and allowed his mind tc
    questing, ranging across the marshes, locating and id(
    fying the peculiar flavors of werebeast and marsh
    minds; rank, brutal, concentrated on killing. With eas
    read the cold passionless thoughts of the serpents ir
    weeds along the verge of the road; at a greater distanc
    sensed a herd of normal wild boar, not werebeasts,
    primitive desires like splinters of stone.
      To Armadiel's highly trained senses, each indiv
    mind had its own taste and color.
      Blanking out the beasts of the wastelands, he sc
    the shining spark of a human soul ... but found noth
      He twisted on the horse's rump and looked back t
    north one more time, a longer, more searching
    Then his brows knitted into a deep frown.
      Armadiel had been told that Ward Point 1.
    population of over twelve hundred people, s(
    Aethyra should have been roiling with their the

    




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    and emotions. The sky above the town should have
    shimmered with the aura of their spirit lives, detectable
    to one like himself from miles away. But there was
    nothing. Armadiel realized to his horror that nothing
    lived there at all - not even an animal.
     Caeled lay back against the man, a small weight against
    his broad torso. The injured boy's mind had slipped into a
    fuzzy darkness where pain did not reach him.
     Armadiel picked up random fragments of the boy's
    unconscious thought and examined them with interest.
     There were images of a woman no longer young, face
    bed and tired, eyes empty and lost, but her resemblance to
    the boy was marked. Mother? Sister? Mother, Armadiel
    decided.
     As always when he encountered some trace of a
    woman in someone else's mind he felt his heart begin to
    pound with that tender excitement no amount of self-
    discipline could erase. She did not have to be young, or
    beautiful. She need only be a woman. They were all
    beautiful to Armadiel, who was not allowed ...
    With an effort he dragged his thoughts back to the
    usiness at hand, the investigation of the boy's mind.
    There were fleeting glimpses of towns and landscapes:
    He recognized the spires of ancient Barrow and the
    enormous caverns of the City of the Dead, the cemetery
    beyond the capital, where the destitute made pitiful
    homes for themselves in a moldering necropolis.
     Next came a succession of towns, some by the sea;
    Armadiel recognized the reef-locked villages of Kern and
    Skerries, which meant that the boy and his mother were
    moving northward in his memories. There were faces too,
    usuOy men, flavored by the boy's disgust and loathing.
     And then Ward Point. The images clearer now.
    Armadiel recognized the town from the description
    Brother Maseriel had given him. just another squalid
    northern town, home - refuge - for the lost and the
    dispossessed, the detritus of the Seven Nations.

    




    58
    
    SILVERHAND
    
      A change of scene, of mood: pulsing colors dance(
    the boy's mind and his body began to twitch in rhyth
    response.
      Armadiel recoiled from the flickering lights
    haunting Caeled's feverish memory. They made him
    so cold, so lost; they soured his stomach and broug
    rush of bile to his mouth. Where could the boy have:
    them? And from whence came that disgusting smell?
      Of course! Surely what the boy was remembering
    the horror that had overtaken Ward Point. But it 'A
    have involved more than flickering lights and an app~
    stench. They must have been precursors of some-
    infinitely more awful to which Caeled had been unw
    witness.
      Was that why Brother Maseriel had sent Armadi(
    to find the child? The Hieromonach had not explaino
    reasons and the man had not dared to ask. ThosE
    followed the Way swore complete and absolute
    ence to the Hieromonach, the chief of the Order.
      Standing before the old man, Armadiel had fE
    weight of the Hieromonach's personality battering I
    irresistibly as a mighty wind. He had received e
    image of the boy's face as M aseriel was speaking. "Y
    find this boy in the town of Ward Point at the
    ernmost point of the King Road, and you are to bit
    here to us at once. Let nothing stop you. E
    understand?"
      Armadiel had nodded.
      "Guard him well, Brother. I have walked the linE
    future. It is a dark and twisted pattern, one of tf.
    complex I have ever seen. And like most complex I
    there are breaks in the strands. There are, a s
    places where his life might end. But if he sur
    manhood, then his future will be entwined v
    survival of the Seven Nations."
      The Hieromonach read the unspoken que,
    Armadiel's mind. "No, even I am not sure if he is

    




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    Brother Armadiel. In my lifetime, twenty boys have been
    brought to Baddalaur. Each time we believed we had the
    
    child. Twenty times we have been disappointed .
    though perhaps disappointed is too strong a word. All the
    boys stayed with us and proved of value to the Order in
    one way or another." The old man smiled faintly. 'Why, I
    believe you were one of those boys," he said as if only just
    remembering, though Armadiel knew that Maseriel never
    
    forgot anything.
    
     "I was," he acknowledged. His parents, impoverished
    fisher folk at the edge of the Eastern Ocean, had sold him
    to some leather-clad warriors for a handful of coins.
    Strange indeed was the odyssey that had eventually
    brouo,ht him to Baddalaur and the Order and in me
    
    to undertake another odyssey, to find another boy. .
     Caeled groaned. The movement of the horse had set
    his wound bleeding again. When they made camp for the
    night Armadiel would take another look at the wound. If
    telltale black streaks were starting up the arm he would
    have to cut off another portion of it while the boy was still
    strong enough to endure the operation. He knew the
    dangers of leaving the amputation too late. If he
    misjudged the time, corruption would have spread
    through the boy's body and he would die.
     Cradling Caeled's unconscious body to cushion it from
    the impact as best he could, Armadiel urged the horse
    into a faster gait. They could not reach the next town
    before nightfall, so he was making for the ruins he had
    mentioned to Caeled. When his horse settled into a
    steady, ground-eating canter, Armadiel allowed his
    thoughts to roam. With his trained senses he pinpointed
    the location of the creatures who were now verv
    
    deliberately tracldng them.
    
     A small pack of Madra AlIta were keeping pace with
    the horse from a safe distance. Farther behind but closing
    fast was a Torc Allta, a wereboar, which retained the
    mindless savagery of the wild boar and would kill for

    




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    pleasure, even if it did not need to feast on flesh. C
    raking thrust of those curving tusks could transi
    sufficient poison to turn those of their human victims v
    Icsurvived" into wereboars like themselves, doomed te
    eNistence of homicidal madness.
     As often before, Armadiel regretted that his horse
    not taller. The animal was big and strong for its spe(
    but books in the Great Library at Baddalaur depil
    horses in the past who had been both rangier and n
    powerfully built, with horizontal pupils to their
    rather than vertical catlike slits. In spite of caj
    breeding by the ranchers in western Galloway, the sp
    as a whole seemed to be shrinking and growing weaki
      They could not even run as fast as the books clai
    they once had run. Sometimes Armadiel puzzled
    this.
      The road stretched unbroken toward the horiz,
    gray thread through a verdigris landscape. In the dis
    Armadiel could just make out the ruins of some ar
    structure, silhouetted against a rapidly darkening 4
    squinted at the heavens, gauging the amount ofda
    left. At this pace, they would not reach the ruins I
    night fell.
      Armadiel gave his horse a violent kick, pushing it
    full gallop. The wind whipped its mane so that the,
    hair lashed his fingers as he held the reins.
      He caught a flicker of alarm from the Madra
    That part of them which was still human recogni2
    intention. He must not be allowed to reach the r
    security of the ruins. An unspoken command fr(
    spotted leader of the pack sent the weredogs
    toward the road at an angle to intercept the ga
    horse. Only the younger dogs yapped and barke
    others ran in grim silence, their thoughts red and
    Meat. Soft nwat. Fresh meat.
      Armadiel counted nine of the beasts as he d
    sword from its sheath. Three were running well a

    




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    the others, racing with bellies low to the ground and
    yellow eyes gleaming. Their human features were almost
    discernible beneath coarse hair and altered muscle. They
    were the dominant beasts in the pack; they would choose
    when and how to bring their victim down. The other six
    had formed into a semicircle on the road behind the
    horse. These were experienced hunters guided by almost-
    human minds; they rarely failed to make their kill.
     A sword would not be sufficient against them. While he
    might strike down one animal, Armadiel would surely be
    attacked by another. And if he died the boy would die
    with him only to awake into a worse existence. Thrusting
    the sword back into its scabbard, Armadiel pulled a flail
    out of its sleeve fastened at the base of the pommel and
    slid one hand through the wrist loop. The weapon
    resembled a leather whip, but with seven lashes, each
    tipped with an iron spike.
     The man could feel the tension in the horse between
    his legs. The gray gelding was as aware of the danger as
    he was. Its every instinct was to panic and bolt, but it had
    been well trained and maintained the rhythmic gallop the
    rider demanded. "Steady, boy, steady," Armadiel whis-
    pered. 'We need a tiny advantage."
     Then suddenly the first of the Madra AlIta was upon
    them. With an almost human snarl it attempted to leap
    onto the horse's back. Armadiel waited until the last
    moment before lashing out with the flail. The seven metal
    spikes tore into the weredog's face, rippmig away skin and
    muscle, destroying its eyes. The creature whirled in the
    middle of the road, snapping and rending its own
    haunches. The horse skidded to a halt, whirled, and
    pounded the creature with furious hooves before turning
    again and galloping on. Immediately the two nearest
    Madra Allta abandoned their pursuit to devour what
    remained of their erstwhile leader. But the six in front
    closed in, preparing for the kill.
      Armadiel prayed the boy in front of him would not
    
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    SILVERHAND
    
    regain consciousness just in time to experience o
    agonizing death. He dropped the reins and gave the hor,
    its head. It surged forward. The oldest weredogs soon f(
    behind and were forced to give up the chase, turnh
    back to join in devouring their fallen leader. The thr
    who remained were strong, determined beasts, howev,
    Human flesh was sweet. They would not give up easily.
      As they closed in on the racing horse, Armadiel twist
    in the saddle and lashed out with his flail to the left a
    the right, temporarily driving them back. But they ca:.
    on again.
      Meanwhile the horse, under its double burden,
    tiring.
      Realizing this, one of the dogs struck off at an an
    Armadiel tried to read its seething thoughts. Beneath
    red lust for killing and blood he caught a monochr(
    impression of a boulder overhanging the road, ain
    Madra Allta leaping from the boulder onto the back
    running horse.
      Armadiel smiled to himself as the road twisted to
    left and he saw the overhanging rock ahead.
      When the werebeast launched itself off the boulder
    the rider below, it was impaled on a waiting sword. The
    used the beast's momentum to toss it onto the grc
    where it writhed, disemboweled, as the two rema
    Madra AlIta ran up to feast on its dying body.
      Toward the end its screams sounded quite human
      A weary Armadiel rode into the ruined shrine o
    last rays of the setting sun broke through the cl
    gilding the tumbled stones like a benediction. Hi
    outwitted the Madra Allta, but he was all too awar
    other beasts would soon prowl the night. He pray(
    residual magic of the holy place could keep them at

    




    CHArTER TEN
    
     The lovers writhed on silken sheets, limbs entwined.
    Their passion was not entirely spontaneous. Though
    mused by each other's bodies, they moved with as much
    control as if they were following the steps of a dance,
    carefully gauging pulse and tempo, assessing their pas-
    sions until just short of the ultimate ardor ... and there
    they stopped.
     Eyes dreamy with lust, Lares gazed at his sister. Sarel
    ran her fingers through her hair, combing it aside so she
    could see the expression on her brother's face which so
    exactly mirrored her own.
    felt in equal measure the power that flowed
    them, around them, that crackled in the air
    between them. Raw energy to be channelled.
     Lares pulled back slightly, allowing a measure of air
    into the space between their bodies. With his fingertips
    he approached his sister's bosom. Waves of heat flowed
    between his fingers and her flesh.
     Sarel ran her palm in slow, smooth strokes up her
    brother's thigh. The caress caused the fine hair to rise on
    the surface of his skin.
     "Hold the image," Lares commanded, his voice thick-
    ening. "At our moment of greatest passion, hold the
    image."
     'The image of the Void," Sarel whispered, spreading
    her legs to receive her brother. She could see the twisting
    grayness ever more clearly; over his shoulder she watched

    




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    SILVERHAND
    
    it coalescing out of the air. Colors began to sparkle in th
    heart of the void, brilliant reds and yellows that throbbe
    in time to her passion and her brother's pounding lust.
     "Hold the irnage," Lares commanded.
     I see it," she cried in ecstacy, I see it!"
     The web of energy around them brightened
    intensity. Coruscating lines of power danced from tl
    twinned flesh to the metal objects in the chamb(
    blackening buckles, singeing buttons, boiling wine
    silver goblets.
     "See the Void," Lares said.
      I see it."
     I see it!" he echoed.
     "Make it grow," she groaned.
      "It grows!"
     "Now ... almost ... now... " Sarel murmured - th
    her voice rose to a scream - "Send it!"
      'Where?"
     "South, south, south ... to Brethany!"
     The twins collapsed in each other's arms while
    around them flames, danced and sparked and hiss
    leaping from surface to surface. The chamber smeHe(
    ozone.
     And in Brethany, a Void formed.

    




    CHArTER ELEVE4 N
    
     Gwynne slowly straightened, pressing muddy hands to
    the small of her aching back. The band of muscles at the
    base of her spine was burning; darts of agony ran up into
    her neck. The leather straps holding the babysling were
    biting painfully into her shoulders. Silan had spoken of
    padding them for her, but he had so many demands on
    his time that she hated to ask for something so trivial.
     To add to her discomfort, she could feel sticky
    moisture oozing down around her heavy breasts. It might
    have merely been sweat - but it might have been blood.
    The straps could have rubbed her shoulders raw. She
    resisted pulling open the neck of her gown and looking. if
    she was bleeding, there was nothing she could do about it
    right now. The day's work must be finished.
    I If het shoulders were bleeding, Silan would kiss them
    well tonight.
     Gwynne smiled, taking such pleasure from the image
    that she was able to forget how cold her feet were,
    ae-deep in black water.
     The tall, weathered woman turned to look out across
    their small farm. From left to right she could see the rest
    of her family, bending over in the deliberately flooded
    field, gathering the golden stalks of the long grains. Pour
    of her surviving children were old enough to help with
    the planting and the harvesting. Even Bevan, the young-
    est aside from the baby, was almost seven summers.
      As she gazed at her children Gwynne smiled again,

    




    66
    
    SILVERHAND
    
    crinkling the network of wrinkles at the comers of h(
    green eyes. "Laugh lines," Silan called them fondly w1if
    she complained about them. "They make you mo-.
    beautiful ... to me. It means I'm not growing old I
    myself."
      Gwynne shifted again in a vain attempt to ease f
    weight on her back. Baby Derfyl had surprised them
    by surviving, in spite of last year's famine and a pi
    tracted, agonized labor that took far too long. "You shoi
    never have conceived another child at your age," the (
    women had warned Gwynne, shaking their heads a
    clucking their tongues.
      But they did not know how sweet was Silan's embr;
    in the night, how comforting the heat of his body nexi
    hers. How irresistible his continuing desire for I
    affirming the youth she felt inside.
      This Naming Day, Gwynne would count forty si
    mers. She had bome ten children, five of whom survii
    The Goddess had indeed smiled upon her. When she
    Silan were bent with age, they would have children
    grandchildren to look after them.
      Shading her eyes with a mud-caked hand, Gwy
    looked for her husband's familiar figure. There. Afte
    these years, it still gave her a jolt of pleasure to catch ~
    of him. Silan was at the far end of the field, draggi
    bulging cloth sack to the wooden-wheeled cart they
    parked in the early morning when shadows lay long a(
    the still water. By squinting she could just make out
    similarly-filled sacks on the back of the cart, though
    had only harvested half the field.
      At least they wouldn't go hungry this year. Maybe I
    would even be another child, another girl, a sistE
    Derfyl.
      As if she could read her mother's mind, the baby o
    back cooed. Smile deepening, Gwynne returned t
    work, As she pulled the tough stalks out of the mu,
    pushed them into the sack tied to her belt sh(

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    dreaming of another child.
    
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    Another gift from the Goddess.
    
     When the shadows had completely disappeared and
    the sun had long legs, Gwynne straightened and clapped
    her hands. The sound echoed across the standing water in
    the field. Derfyl, who had been dozing peacefully in her
    babysling, awoke and began to cry at once in a demanding
    tone
     'Time to eat!" the four older children shouted eagerly.
     Gvvynne was doling out thick broth from a pot set on
    dry ground beside the cart when Silan at last left his work
    to join them. "It's going to be a good harvest," he
    announced with satisfaction. Collum, the eldest boy, was
    red-faced from heaving his last sack up into the back of
    the cart. He stepped to one side to make room for his
    father, who tousled his head affectionately.
     'We'll be finished by nightfall," Silan told his wife. He
    accepted a wooden bowl from her but declined a spoon.
    Putting the bowl to his mouth, he tilted his head back and
    swallowed in great hungry gulps. The four boys were
    about to follow his example when their mother's glare
    stopped them.
     'Win I ever teach you manners?" Gwynne asked as she
    reached out to pluck shreds of meat from Silan's red
    beard.
     He caught her hand and kissed the palm. "Never," he
    promised. ,Aah, but if you could have seen how I ate
    when I was a soldier. . . "
     "How did you eat, papa?" Bevan asked.
     The man crouched on the soft earth and his four sons,
    each of them marked with his red hair and brown eyes,
    gathered around him. 'Why, sometimes we ate very well,"
    he told them, repeating an old story they never tired of
    hearing. "I was with the emperor's army when it took
    Galloway Fort. The people there were wealthy beyond
    measure. We slept on their feather beds and ate from
    their silver plates.
    
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    SILVERHAND
    
      "But less than a single moon later," he continu,
    lowering his voice, "when we were returning through i
    Spine in the depths of the Cool Season, we had nothinj
    eat. We were forced to subsist on dog-rats. Raw,"
    emphasized.
      The boys stared at him wide-eyed.
      "Of course that was where I met your mother."
      The boys elbowed one another and exchanged wi,
    They knew what was coming.
      "There we were, the remnants of one of the r
    powerful armies ever to march across the Seven Nati
    lost and starving in icy mountains." Silan's voice
    hushed as he remembered the friends and comrade
    had lost to a monarch's stupidity. For a brief morr
    Los-Lorcan had held the world in his hands ... and
    thrown it away to indulge in a rampage of wa
    savagery which unified his enemies against him.
      Silan had shed no tears when he learned that the I
    had slain their tyrannical father and assumed power
    place. Anything was preferable to Los-Lorcan, who
    sit in his silken tent -gobbling roast meats with both I
    while his warriors were starving a few paces away.
      Forcing himself to set aside such terrible mem
    Silan looked into the eyes of his sons and felt his
    swell with pride. Blessed with such children, he co,
    himself richer than the emperor at the height 4
    power.
      "Your mother rode with the Snowscalds then," b
    to the boys, continuing his narrative. 'They were
    some mountain bandits."
      "Don't listen to your father," Gwynne said quiet]
    had opened the neck of her gown and held the b
    her breast, smiling down at the eager little face p
    against her flesh. The times they were speak
    seemed long ago. Fourteen summers had passe(
    she rode with her kinfolk in the high mountaim
    Snowscalds were all women who had no menfolk

    




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    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
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    had lost fathers or husbands in the wars. Banditry was the
    only way they could survive."
     'Well, those helpless women attacked us in one of the
    long passes. They blocked up both ends with boulders
    and rained spears and stones down on us. There was an
    army of thousands up on the cliffs . . .
     "Ninety women," said
    
                                      baby from
    one breast to the other. 'Widows and orphans, mostly."
     "So we surrendered," Silan grinned. 'They were a
    terrifying sight, those women on their grotesque mounts.
     'What was grotesque about them?" Marik asked
    eagerly, hoping for some new and deliciously frightening
    detail.
     His father told him, 'They had freakish feet. No hooves
    at all, but a cluster of toes."
    
    Gwynne, shifting the
    
     'They were peries," Gwynne explained to her sons.
     "Hub?"
     "Peri is short for perissodactyl, which means having an
    odd number of toes. Some people call peries 'new horses'
    because the first ones were discovered in the mountains
    within my own lifetime. They aren't grotesque at all; aside
    ftom their feet they look like ordinary small horses, but
    they are more agile and as surefooted as cats."
     The boys gazed at their mother in open-mouthed
    admiration. She had lived a whole other life they could
    hardly imagine, and knew things far beyond their own
    experience.
     Collum asked, 1"ere did you learn all those big
    words? Like per! ... perissowhatever?"
     Gwynne chuckled. "Perissodactyl isn't a big word, it's
    made up of little words put together, words that come
    down to us from ancient times. There used to be books
    about such things. I read some of them when I was in
    school. I was orphaned, you see, when I was twelve
    cycles; too young to ride with the Snowscalds, though I
    h d kinswomen who did. My grandparents had also
      nfly died, so there was nothing to be done with me

    




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    SILVERHAND,
    
    but to send me to the Sisterhood of Lussa for raising a
    educating. Then when I reached sixteen cycles they tr
    to make me take the Vows of Lussa. Instead I ran awa)
    the mountains and became one of the Snowsce
    myself." With a mischievous wink at Silan, she add
    "You see what rebellion got me!"
      The boys were more impressed than ever. Sensing
    was losing his audience, Silan cleared his throat loi
    and resumed his narrative. 'The Snowscalds agree(
    allow us out of the pass one at a time if we paid tith
    them. They took everything we possessed. Even
    clothes!"
      Small Bevan burst out laughing.
      'When it came my turn, I found myself facing
    terrifying warrior wearing a leather breastplate
    carrying a barbed sword in her hand. Aaah, but shE
    magnificent! What do you have?' she demanded. '?
    ing,' I said. 'You must have something to give me,,
    replied, and I thought she was going to run me thi
    with her sword. 'Only a kiss,' I said. And she took
    He shook his head, laughing at the memory. "Six -P
    later I returned to the mountain, and we found
    other. We were handfasted that same day."
      Gwynne removed the baby from her breast and I
    over her shoulder, gently rubbing its back. "Don't I
    a word your father says. I have to . . . " She st(
    suddenly tense, and looked anxiously around.
      Silan reached for his curved sickle. 'Mlat's wron
      Gwynne was frowning. "I thought I heard somef
      Silan cocked his head to one side. "Rustling," I
    decisively. "I hear something rustling."
      Gwynne agreed. "Ru stling.- She settled the chil(
    sling on her back.
      "Rats? Serpents? What do you think?' Silan askf
      The woman stepped back from the wooden car
    she whispered. "No. Look there, Silan." She poi
    the bed of the cart. One of the sacks of long grE

    




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    said
    
    the
    
    her.
   No,"
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    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
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    opened, spilling its golden contents onto the bed of the
    cart. As they watched, each stalk was shifting, causing a
    peculiar rustling noise.
     Silan stooped and placed the flat of his hand on the
    ground. Brethany was not noted for earth tremors, but
    the weather patterns had been unstable recently and that
    was usually a portent of trouble.
      But the earth was quiet to his touch.
     "It's in the air!" Gwynne gasped. just then the baby
    started to cry, a high-pitched wail of pain. They all heard
    the alien sound then, a distant moaning like the night
    wind across the moors that rapidly escalated into an
    agonizing screech. Silan groaned at the ache it caused in
    his teeth. The boys clapped their hands over their ears
    and clustered around their mother like chicks seeking
    safety beneath the hen's wings.
     Then briefly, very briefly, the air was filled with a
    multitude of odors. Some were foul, others pleasant;
    some bitter, others sweet.
     The entire cart was shaking now, each individual grain
    on the stalks buzzing with a life of its own. The branches
    on the trees bordering the field were whipping violently
    as if blown by some tremendous gale, though there was
    no wind. If anything, the air was too still. Yet leaves were
    tom from the trees to blow in verdant clouds across the
    field before dropping at last onto its flooded surface; a
    surface already shuddering with a million tiny ripples.
     The woman was just turning toward her husband for
    reassurance when the unearthly screeching exploded into
    an even more terrifying scream. "Run!" shouted Gwynne.
    But her voice was lost in the sound.
     Air warped and a gray whirlpool materialized out of
    nothing, bringing nothingness with it.
      The Scream turned white-hot with passion.
     Silan grabbed the two oldest boys. Gwynne caught
    Bevan's hand and shoved him and Nole away from the
    amorphous shape suddenly hovering over the cart, just as

    




    72
    
    SILVERHAND
    
    the long grains turned black and slimy. The air filled v
    the stench of putrefaction.
      Silan and Collum caught the comer of one sack
    pulled, desperate to save their harvest. The gray noth,
    ness shifted and flowed around them. Collum saw it s(
    onto his father's face, saw the features melt and run,
    before he could scream, the bloated Void settled
    him.
      Frenzied with terror, Gwynne ran, pushing her
    youngest sons ahead of her. Once she glanced over
    shoulder. She could not see Silan or Collum or M
    then the Void twisted and for an instant - a s-
    heartbeat - she caught a glimpse of red hair, brown
    pleading and lost, and then the image vanished.
    devouring Void moved on past the cart and swept a
    the field, leaving oily pools of fetid waste on the wate
      Gwynne was frantic to get herself and her remc-
    children to safety. She was determined to read
    shelterbelt of trees; perhaps it could not follow
    there. Running, stumbling, sobbing, she splashed
    the field, herding her sons in front of her.
      She dare not look back again.
      Suddenly it was upon her. The shapeless
    swooped low and snatched little Bevan before hei
    absorbing the child into nothingness. Gwynne gi
    for Nole just as the Void reached for him. Her dis'
    ing eyes saw gray cloud sheer away the top of hi~
    Then the Void closed over him entirely, me
    concealing his fate from his mother.
    
      Numb with loss, driven only by instinct, C
    staggered toward the trees. Her brain had, ce;
    function rationally, although she was dimly aware I
    White Scream.had stopped. The only sounds sh,
    were her own gasps and flounderings, and the wl
    ing of the baby on her back.
      Something hit her. It was not a physical bloi

    




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    chill so total, so encompassing that it drove her to her
    knees. A moment more and she toppled face first into the
    mud. The cold settled over her with crushing weight.
    Derfyl! she thought. My baby!
     Then she heard the Scream one final time, fading yet
    triumphant, and knew her baby was gone.
     When Gwynne finally managed to sit up the field was
    deserted. The only evidence of the Void's passing was a
    few black oily patches on the surface of the water, and a
    burning coldness in her back and shoulders.

    




    CHArTER TWELVE
    
      "What is this place?" asked a faint, drowsy voice.
     Armadiel stood up. The firelight washed over his I
    face, highlighting the broad cheekbones and deeper
    the hollows of his eyes beneath his leather helm.
      He was still wearing his armor.
     "A Way Shrine, or at least what remains of one," he
    the boy who lay on a pallet of musty straw beside the a
    At the sound of the man's voice the caparisoned h,
    looked up hopefully from the other side of the charn
    ignoring the nosebag fitted over its bridle. "Eat the g
    I've given you, good friend," Armadiel advised the ani
    "It's a small enough ration and I apologize if it's not)
    you get at home, but under the circumstances we D
    do with what we have."
      The horse listeW~d as intently as if it understood e
    word, then sighed and began munching the conten
    the nosebag. The rhythmical sound of its che
    competed with the crackling of the small fire Arm
    had lit on the broken flagstones.
     Caeled struggled to sit up. "I dreamed that ...
    he gasped in sudden pain when he moved his left
    His face went white and sweat broke out on his
    head.
      "That part, at least, was no dream," Armadiel told
    "I am truly sorry."
      Caeled leaned against the altar, pressing the ba
    his head against the worn stone. He squeezed his

    




    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    75
    
    shut and felt something wet gather in their comers and
    trickle down his cheeks.
     Armadiel leaned over him to brush the tears away with
    the ball of his thumb. He rubbed the moisture against the
    boy's dry lips, saying, "Take these tears back. Cry only for
    others. Never for yourself." Turning away, he knelt by the
    fire again, feeding it with twigs and dry moss. "I am
    Armadiel," he called over his shoulder.
     "My name is Caeled," the boy began, and then
    stopped, suddenly remembering there was no one left
    alive who would know him by that name. Everyone who
    had known him - his mother, friends, neighbors - were
    all gone, victims of whatever evil had stalked through
    Ward Point. His eyes threatened to fill again. "I seem to
    remember we were chased by wolves . . . " he said
    hoarsely, forcing himself to think of something else.
     "Madra Allta," the big man corrected him. 'Weredogs."
    As he spoke the flames of his fire cast grotesque shadows
    on the walls. "But there are wolves out there tracking us,
    and a marsh hon has been following our trail. In truth,
    however, they are not our greatest worry. I have always
    found the beasts which walk on two legs far more
    dangerous than any furred creature."
     ,'They'll smell the smoke," Caeled warned.
     7hey won't need the smell of smoke to find us, and I
    would rather have the light and warmth of the fire than sit
    here in the darkness waiting. It's the odor of blood that
    draws the beasts, and we have shed enough blood
    recently to call the entire marshlands to us."
     Caeled attempted to stand, levering himself upwards
    against the altar. The ruined building shifted and swam
    around him and he clung to the altar with his one good
    hand. He breathed deeply, trying to forget about the pain
    by concentrating on his surroundings.
     'What is this place again?" he asked through gritted
    teeth.
      "A Way Shrine, " Armadiel repeated. -I do not know which

    




    76
    
    SILVERHAND
    
    god or goddess it's dedicated to, though. The statue which
    surely stood in that niche over there is long gone. When the
    Katan rode through the Nations two generations past they
    destroyed all the shrines they could find. They considered it
    sacrilege to raise an image of a deity."
      'The legends say the Katan desecrated all the holy
    places and butchered the priests in ways too terrible to
    describe."
      "There is some truth in that," Armadiel confirmed. He
    glanced sidelong at the boy, one side of his face gilded by
    the fire, the other in shadow. "Do you know much of
    legends?"
      "Some," Caeled replied. He was holding onto the altar
    as he edged slowly around it, making his way to the
    warmth of the fire blazing cheerfully in the center of the
    chamber. "Do you?"
      "Some," Armadiel said, bending his head to hide a
    smile. I am a Seeker of the Way."
      "A holy monk!"
      "Not holy, merely one of the Order. We study and we
    seek." Armadiel was faintly embarrassed by the terrn
    some outsiders applied to himself and the other brothers.
      Caeled leane against the scarred altar, wincing when
    his injured arm touched the stone. "Are you a Lawgiver?'
      "There are no more Lawgivers," Armadiel said quietly.
    "None have been trained in Baddalaur for generations."
      I know the legends of Baddalaur!"
      "Most people do. But some of the stories are, I'M
    afraid, just that: stories. Many of the tales of fearles%
    Seekers riding to the rescue of some besieged town ,
    kidnapped maiden were created in Baddalaur by Seekers,
    who had never stepped outside the College. Badd4laut
    has always attracted its share of, ah, creative minds. Some
    of them find everyday reality boring."
      I think I prefer legends myself," Caeled murmuredi
    haunted by his own recent reality.
      "Most people do," Armadiel said again.

    




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     Holding his left arm cradled against his body, Caeled
    moved slowly around the room. It was a single circular
    chamber that rose to a high domed ceiling. The original
    design was windowless, the only opening being the door
    which faced the altar, but time, the elements, and human
    agency had broken a gaping hole in the ceiling and
    another opening in the wall to the left of the door.
     At last reaching the fire, swaying slightly but trium-
    phantly independent of support, Caeled carefully tilted
    his head back so he could look up. For once the night sky
    was clear; he could see stars far above like pinholes in
    black cloth. Fancifully, he imagined beings - gods? -
    on the other side of that cloth, peering down at the world
    through the tiny holes.
     Suddenly a real shape flickered across the sky; then
    another and another. "Something's moving up there!" he
    whispered.
     Armadiel rose to his feet to stand behind him, placing a
    steadying hand on the boy's uninjured shoulder. They
    stared into the starry vault together. "Flying devils," the
    man said after a moment. "There must be a nest nearby."
      'Will they attack us?"
     'Their name and reputation are worse than the actual
    creatures. Flying devils live off the blood of cattle. They
    cannot feed on human blood, it's poisonous to them. But
    i they are attacked and frightened enough they will bite
    and claw humans. Like so many creatures, the flying
    devils are only made dangerous by fear."
     As he spoke, Armadiel went over to the still-saddled
    horse and took a blackened copper pot from one of the
    panniers. From other pouches and pockets he extracted
    meal, flour, a bottle of water, and mixed a sort of porridge
    which he cooked over the fire.
     Since the man had his back to him, Caeled allowed
    himself to return to the altar and lean against it once
    more. Soon the smell of the porridge began making the
    boy's stomach rumble in spite of his injury. He was young

    




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    SILVERHAND
    
    and growing and it had been a very long time since he ate
    anything.
      When the meal was ready, Armadiel beckoned him.
    "Sit here by me, boy. Conserve your energy, there's no
    need for you to stand. You might need all the strength you
    can muster before this night is through."
      Caeled eased himself to the ground, sitting cross-
    legged beside the fire with his bandaged arm resting in
    his lap. "You saved my life," he acknowledged, "and I
    must thank you. If you hadn't been there, the Madra Allta
    would have killed me."
      Armadiel's lips twisted in a wry smile. "It's a moot
    point. The Madra Allta was tracking me originally, so if I
    had not been there, it would not have been there to att
    you. The important thing is, our meeting was predes-
    tined."
      "My mother says - said - there is no such thing as
    destiny, and that all fortune tellers are frauds."
      "She's right to a certain extent. There is no one future
    The threads which comprise the tapestry of any person's
    fate are constantly shifting and twisting, presenting a
    variety of possibilities. Occasionally a very gifted seer will
    be able to trace one particular line of a man's future to its
    logical destination, and foresee an outcome that ulti
    mately proves to be true. But there are some points
    every life which are immutable; knots in the string.
      "Our meeting was such a knot."
      "Can you see the future?" Caeled asked, le
    forward. As he did so, the firelight gave him his first cle
    look at the man's face and he blinked in astonishme
    "You have no eyebrowsl"
      The big man chuckled deep in his belly. Reaching
    he pulled off his helm. Firelight gleamed on his bald pate
    "Seekers have no hair. None at all , he elaborate
    pushing up his sleeve to reveal an unnaturally smoo
    arm. "People say the members of our Order are hairle
    because shaving is a way of imposing order upon

    




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    t~ ~ undisciplined growth of hair. According to the legends,
    
    we deliberately remove every hair from our bodies simply
    
    exert control over random nature.
    
     "But shall I tell you the truth? The truth is, the brothers
    choose to be hairless because during the Warm Season
    
    Baddalai is infested with lice."
    
     The boy burst out laughing. Armadiers eyes twinkled. -Now
    there's a sound I like to hear. I'll wager it's been a long time since
    there was any laughter within these walls. " Withdrawing a knife
    hm his beh, he used it to hook the pot out of the fire, and then
    thrustawoodens-oc n into Caeledls remaininghand.'-rake mv
    
    spoon, boy. Your own is too bent to use
     "Are you not joining me ?"
"I shall eat later," Armadiel hed. There was barely
          0 d for one. He had been travelling light to
     ake speed, trusting that he and the horse could forage if
    the need arose. "I'm not hungrv at the moment. Eat and
    
    then sleep. I'll keep watch."
    
    'Will the beasts come after us tonight?" Caeled asked
    
    nervously.
    
    "PerhaDs." Armadiel returned to his saddle and took up
    
    UP,
   ate.
    e d,
    oth
     ss
     the
    
    his sword. "But before anything can attack you it must get
    inside these walls. And that will mean getting past me."
    
     In the world of men Brother Maseriel was a blind,
    rheumatic oldster who had seen seventy summers, but in
    the Aethyra he was once again in his prime; powerful,
    strong, with the sharply chiselled features that had given
    him his nickname - Hawk. Sometimes when he trav-
    elled in the Aethyra he assumed the shape of a hawk and
    soared up through the dreamscape, or hung in space on
    mitStrPtChed winas to read the patterns and auras on the
    
    land beneath him as one might read a map.
     Only initiates could make use of the Aethyra, the
    fabled Thirty Realms inhabited by beings not at home on
    the World Below or in the Sky Beyond. Ordinary folk
    with mortal eyes could not see the Aethyra, though it

    




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    SILVERHAND
    
    loomed over them in thirty shifting, shimmering layi
    traversed by forces they could not imagine. Mod(
    philosophers debated its existence, but an exceptiom
    sensitive person might occasionally catch a glimpse
    something glimmering and strange, like heat waves risi
      Maseriel preferred it to all places on earth, for in 1
    Aethyra he was young.
      High above Baddalaur he swooped and soared effi
    lessly on the Timewinds, seeing the ancient edifice can
    into the living stone of the mountain dissolve int(
    tapestry of emotional colors. Most of the brothers emit
    somber hues of brown and gray, but there was
    occasional fiery red or bright yellow, the telltale aura ol
    exceptional consciousness. Each of these was like a je
    to the proud Hieromonach.
    
      Reluctantly, Maseriel at last turned away from
    contemplation of Baddalaur. He had an all-important I
    to accomplish and little time remaining. He had h,
    beyond his years; only his indomitable will and a magic i
    was not entirely benevolent had kept him alive this k
    But he had sworn that he would live until the promi
    one - a boy, god-marked, beast-touched - had b
    found. Now he was spending the last of his energy ir
    attempt to discover if this indeed was the boy.
      Leaving B addalaur, he flew in search of the aura that w(
    identify Brother Armadiel. Maseriel relished this opportu
    to assume the familiar and beloved hawk shape. How g(x
    was to feel, just once more, the rush of air across his feaff
    the strong downbeat of his wings as they lifted him througl
    Aethyra! All the limitations of his aged body were forgotte
    sensualdelight.
      But responsibility called him back to the task at h;
    Sloping northward on the Timewinds, he saw, faint and fan
    but distinct to his spirit eyes, the shimmering silver aura
    particular Seeker. Maseriel concentrated his vision.
      The silver was surrounded by deadly black.

    




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     The wolves had arrived.
     For some time Armadiel had been aware of their
    stealthy reconnoitering of the ruined shrine. He tasted
    their minds: wild, but clean, and detected no werecrea-
    ture among them, yet intuition told him some agency
    beyond themselves was directing them. A Tire Allta, a
    Wolf Lord, possibly. Few humans survived the were-
    change into wolves, the most complex and intelligent of
    all werebeasts, but those who did were exceptionally
    dangerous.
     Armadiel was standing by the door with his sword in
    one hand and his knife in the other when the night
    shadows shifted, assuming fur and teeth. His sword
    slashed through the forelimbs of the first creature; he
    swung it free to drive the blade deep into the neck
    muscles of a second beast. The wounded animals fell
    snarling and snapping at each other, blocking the door.
     On his bed of straw, Caeled came awake with a scream.
     Another wolf launched itself over the bodies of the first
    two. Dropping to one knee, the big man tore open the
    creature's belly with his knife as it attempted to leap over
    him. It fell twitching to the ground.
     His pain forgotten in the excitement, Caeled darted
    forward intending to drive his mother's blunted kitchen
    knife into its heaving chest. The wolfs eyes locked on his;
    the boy recoiled from the agony in them.
     Armadiel put the two creatures in the doorway out of
    their misery, then swiftly dispatched the third and added
    its body to the pile.
     A lupine head appeared at the break in the wall to the
    left of the door. The horse saw it before Armadiel and
      a squeal of anger. Charging forward, the gray gelding
    thrust his head into the gap and plunged the metal horn
    on his helmet into the snarling mouth of the creature.
    When the horse shook his head violently from side to
    side, the impaled wolf choked on its own blood as it died.
      "Four down," Armadiel said mildly.

    




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     "How many are left?" Caeled wanted to know.
     The Seeker hastily sorted through the minds of tl
    animals milling outside until he had differentiated amor
    more than two dozen wolves.
      "How many?" Caeled asked again.
      "Enough," Armadiel said flatly. He quested again, un
    at last he found a protectively cloaked consciousness
    the very rear of the pack - packs, he reminded hims(
    there were at least two packs and possibly more.
      The wolves began howling then, a long drawn-(
    ululation that echoed eerily around the walls of the shr.
    and raised the hair on the back of Caeled's neck. I
    horse whinnied and pawed the ground.
      "The next time they come they may well br
    through," Armadiel warned. "Let the horse block
    opening with his body, and you stand beside him. Thei
    a flail in that bag. Use it on anything that gets into
    shrine."
      "I've never heard of wolves attacking like this," Cai
    remarked as he examined the flail curiously.
      "A Tire Allta is controlling them. A Wolf Lord."
      "But why?"
      Armadiel glanced over his shoulder. "Are you a vi
    boy?"
      Caeled felt his cheeks bloom. "Yes."
      "So am 1, and I never regretted it more than at
    moment. It is claimed that the pure blood of a virgir
    return one of the Clan Allta to its human I
    Individually we might not have been enough to (
    him, but rising together, our auras must have blazei
    the Aethyra and alerted the Wolf Lord. Tire Alta
    gifts not unlike some of those possessed by the Sei
    But he's taking a great gamble, coming after us like t
      cWhy?"
      "Controlling so many wolves will be costing him d
    energy. If the creatures don't overwhelm us soon
    will turn on him. True wolves hate a false leader."

    




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       The baying stopped.
     "Seeker." The voice from outside was a deep and
     chilling growl. "Seeker," it repeated.
       I hear you," Armadiel called.
       "Do you know what I want, Seeker?"
     -1 know." Armadiel risked a quick glance through the
     doorway. The night revealed nothing, but by concentrat-
     ing on his hearing and smell he detected the footfall of
     heavy paws and the musky odor of wet fur. "Get ready,"
     he said in a low voice to Caeled.
     Then Armadiel was all but overwhelmed by the reek of
     the alien mind.
     I will trade you, Seeker. Your life for the boy's. He's
     crippled, good for nothing. Give him to me and you can
     go free."
       "No."
     "A worthless child against your life. Think of all your
     years of training, Seeker. Are you going to throw them
     away now, sacrifice them uselessly?"
     "YOU sound tired, wolf-man!" Armadiel shouted. "You
     don't have much time left, do you? Are your reluctant
     followers getting restless?"
     "You will never leave this place alive, Seeker." The
     voice was softer now, more menacing.
       'That may be so. But I'll not feed a child to you."
     'Then I'll have to take you both. I'll enjoy feasting on
     your flesh before I lap your blood."
     The wolves attacked then, filling the doorway and
     surging against the break in the wall. Armadiel hacked
     and slashed, piling up wolf bodies, while the horse thrust
     and hammered with horn and hooves. Caeled tried to
     use the flail, but in his inexperience he only succeeded
     in wrapping its strands painfully around his own good
     arm. He threw it aside and snatched a brand from the
     fire to use as a blazing torch. When a wolf got past Ar-
    t madiel Caeled sent it yelping with scorched fur and
      bumed face.

    




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    SILVERHAND
    
     But still they came on, guided by the Wolf Lord. Claws
    scrabbled on the walls, seeking purchase on the rougb
    stone so they could climb to the opening in the roof
      'Adur. . . "
      The word shimmered in Caeled's mind.
      'Adur, . . -
     He caught the image of a hawk. Golden winged, wid
    blind white eyes.
     'Adur. . . '
      The word was meaningless to him, but he shouted it
    the top of his lungs. "Adurf"
      The Seeker gaped at him, then dropped his weapor
    abruptly and pressed both palms against the stone walls i
    the Way Shrine. Concentrating all his energy he calle,
    "Adur, Lady Adur, aid us now. Light our way!"
      Wolves swarmed through the doorway in such nur
    bers that for a moment they jammed themselves in t)
    opening like a cork in a bottle. "Lady Adur!" Armad
    cried beseechingly. "Do not let those who pray to y,
    become victims of the darkness! Help us now and cand
    shall bum in your honor in Baddalaur!"
      The tiny stone shrine lit up like a beacon. Lances
    light stabbed out into the darkness and set ablaze the
    of the wolves trying to get in. They yelped in terror
    fled, the bonds that held them broken.
      Only one did not ran. At the edge of the gaping holi
    the roof a lone wolf rose on its hind legs like a rr,
    silhouetted against the stars. The grim dark shape sta
    down into the shrine at virgin flesh and blood, and he
    its lips. It paused for only a moment to savor the few
    come ...
      ... and the light rose to envelop it.
      The Wolf Lord teetered on the brink of the
    screaming with a human voice. His figure was haloed,
    fire. Caeled and Armadiel looked up, appalled, in tiry
    see him claw at the sky, then slowly topple forward &q
    dream, wrapped in flame. He hit the flagstoned floor

    




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    a thud, but what lay there was no longer alive, merely a
    charred and smoking sacrifice.
    
     For a single instant the shrine was whole again. Murals
    painted around undamaged walls told the I old sacred
    stories anew, with the symbols of wheel and sun picked
    out in gemstones. A heavy cloth-of-gold blanket covered
    the altar, where glowing alabaster lamps burned scented
    offi. In a niche a statue stood with arms outstretched.
    Somewhere voices were chanting an ancient hymn of
    praise.
     Then the image faded. In the stunned silence that
    foltowed, Armadiel and Caeled stared at one another.
     'The name . . . " Armadiel began. "How did you know
    this place was dedicated to Adur?"
    
    r
    d
    in
    
    d
    d
    to
    
    to
     a
    
     "I didn't." Caeled felt exhaustion rising over him like a
    sea. His legs were trembling and he no longer cared if
    anyone saw his weakness. He longed only to he down.
     "How did you know the name of the Lady of Light?"
     "I heard it."
     "Heard it?"
     'There was a voice in my head. I saw the image of a
    hawk."
     Armadiel smiled a slow, strange smile. "I see. Of
    course." Raising his head, he gazed toward the stars
    through the broken roof 'Thank you, brother."

    




    CHArTER THIRTEE4 N
    
      Sarel came running into the room, her diaphanou
    gown billowing behind her.
      Lares was standing by the cavernous stone
    with his hands locked behind his back as h
    intently into the flames.
     Green flames.
      "Did you feel it?" the young woman demanded t
    know.
     Her twin grunted.
     "Old energy!" she exclaimed. "So intense, so ... primal!"
      Without looking around, Lares nodded. "One of th
    old gods woke briefly, fed and then slept again."
      Sarel stood behind her brother, pressing her
    against his back as she wrapped her arms around
    "But why, and how? Can we go and see?"
      He shook his head. 'The Aethyra is too disturbed for u
    to travel in right now; the sudden release of energy ha
    sent shock waves through it." He pointed into the fire
    "But I did manage to catch these images before the was
    pushed me away."
      Sarel looked over her brother's shoulder. Wov~n
    the dancing flames were the faces of a boy, a hairless man
    a slavering wolf and a white-eyed golden hawk.
     "Interpret these signs, sister?" Lares invited.
      'The man is a Seeker - see, he has no eyebrows.
    remove all their body hair. As for the others ... I
    know yet, but I sense something

    




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     Lares shruLmyed free of her embrace and then pulled
    her around to stand in front of him. Now he gazed at the
    flames over her shoulder as she said, "I think we should
    destroy this Order, brother. Wipe it from the face of the
    world and pull Baddalaur down."
      Lares shook his head, setting his pigtails aswing.
     'The Seekers present no threat to us now. Perhaps if
    the Lawgivers were still alive we might consider moving
    against them. But the Seekers are nothing but tired old
    men, spinning tales of their former glories."
     "One of those 'tired old men' was present when this
    explosion of energy rippled through the Aethyra," Sarel
    reminded him.
     Lares rested his chin on her shoulder, violet eyes
    brooding as they watched the flames. The faces so briefly
    glimpsed had disappeared but he could still see them in
    his memory. The hairless one looked strong, and the
    boy.. . "Yes," he said abruptly. "You're right sister, you're
    always right. I shall look into it, track this Seeker." He
    moved his hands, running them down Sarel's sides until
    they came to rest on her hips with a gentle, insistent
    pressure.
      The look in her eyes mirrored his desire.
      'We must practice our magic," she said.

    




    CHArTER fOVRT:EE4 N
    
      Armadiel gently shook Caeled's shoulder. 'Wake up,
    boy, you're about to see one of the wonders of the
    modem world: Baddalaur."
      "Baddalaur," Caeled mumbled, cracked lips splitting.
    He licked them but that only made them sting. -Ba&
    dalaur," he repeated vaguely as if the name meant
    nothing to him.
      Armadiel squeezed the boy's shoulder again, attempt-
    ing to transmit a little of his own energy to him. B
    Caeled was very weak by now; the little strength he h
    left had been exhausted by their long and arduous
    journey into the mountains. Though it had not proved
    necessary to remove his forearm, over the past days he
    had burned with a fever that gradually increased until he
    was incandescent with heat.
      Armadiel had done all he could for the boy. He had
    now decided to abandon caution and simply ride for the
    Healing Chapel as fast as he could. If the boy did not
    receive the attention of a Healer soon, nothing could save
    him.
      'What do you know of Baddalaur?" Armadiel asked a
    sharp voice, trying to fix Caeled's attention and keep l~nm
    awake. If he sank into a coma he would tumble all the
    down into death.
      "The College," the boy whispered. He made an
    to raise his head, but then let it fall back like a
    weight against the man's chest. Armadiel could fe

    




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      from Caeled's body even through his leathers. He
       his cloak tighter about the boy, hugging him close.
     e mountain track they were following had brought
     em through several layers of low clouds and the oiled
    leather was beaded with moisture. He didn't want the boy
    to succumb to the Shivering.
     "Do you know how Baddalaur got its name?" Armadiel
    asked Caeled in an effort to keep the boy's mind working,
     "Bardal's Lair," Caeled replied in a slightly stronger
    voice, surprising the man. "Bardal the Lawgiver."
     'The first Lawgiver, creator of the Seekers of the Way."
     "He was a hero, said the boy, twisting in the saddle to
    look up at Armadiel with fever-bright eyes.
     "Aye, he was a hero," Armadiel agreed. "He was a
    warrior from the ice fields of Thusal, who marched south
    army of savages and swept everything before him.
    In less than ten seasons he controlled the land from sea to
    
     "And then he gave it up," Caeled said. He struggled to
    rouse himself further just as the horse came to a wide,
    cuplike depression sloping down the mountainside. A
    slide of shale had obliterated the trail they were following.
    The gelding hesitated but Armadiel gave it an impatient
    kick in the ribs so the animal started forward again,
    picking its way across the scree.
     The horse's solid hooves were too clumsy for the
    unstable surface. The slide shifted; the gelding scrambled
    Adly to keep its footing, then in one prodigious bound
    reached the trail on the far side just as the entire mass slid
    on down the mountain.
     Caeled cried aloud with pain.
     "Nearly there," Armadiel hed. Baddalaur was at least
    another half day?s ride. 'We were speaking of Bardal, I
    believe?" the man resumed as if the incident had not set
    his own heart to pounding. "He grew tired of the avarice
    and lawlessness that surrounded him. He had brought
    chaos in the form of fire and sword and ravening Nvar-riors

    




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    SILVERHAND
    
    who were more beast than men, but when he tired'
    conquest and wanted peace to enjoy what he had wo
    the chaos continued to expand.
      "Bardal came to realize that the lives of men req
    order. So he formulated the Laws and established
    Lawgivers, who were not only highly trained warriors b
    both judges and executioners when need be. In less th
    six seasons he had imposed order upon the lawless I
    and the Nations entered an era of prosperity that h
    never been equalled."
      cWhy did he give it UP?- Caeled asked, teeth ch
    ing. The mist was rolling down the mountain. He
    aware of thick cold air in his lungs and fever burning
    body, but curiously, there was no feeling in his left
    He found himself looking down just to make sure it
    still there, not lost to him like his hand.
      Armadiel was replying to his question. 'There
    many reasons. First the Island Peoples rose against hi
    then the Katan began raiding into the Nations, and
    countries beyond the Spine rebelled and refused to
    tithe. Bardal crushed the rebellions and drove out
    Katan, but at a terrible cost to himself and the Nations
    is then he grew tired," the Seeker said softly. "He
    bom in an ice house in Thusal, and though he bee
    Emperor of the Known World, in his heart he remaine
    creature of the primitive northland. He preferred si
    plicity and loathed the complexities of so-c
    civilization. That is why his Laws and Lawgivers were
    successful: There was only one truth, there were
    shades of gray to confuse people."
      They were climbing ever higher, following azigzag
    that almost doubled back on itself as it wound up and
    circling stark outcroppings of gray rock that glittered
    quartz; cutting through masses of low, spikey moun
    shrubbery; skirting the edge of a precipice above a
    empty space; dropping down into a narrow
    with grass only to find themselves climbing

    




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     ountain, a higher mountain, riding on and on. The air
    grew increasingly thinner, making them yawn. They
    began to hear a faint, faraway ringing, and found
    swallowing repeatedly in an effort to relieve
    the pressure in their ears.
    \Vhe pain in Caeled's arm returned, throbbing in
    rhythm with his laboring heartbeat.
     At last the mist began to dissolve and a watery sunshine
    burned through. The boy stirred restlessly and turned his
    face to the light. Looking down at him, the man noted
    that his eyes were deeply sunken in their sockets, his
    bloodless skin translucent with fever.
     "Almost there," Armadiel assured him. He raised an
    arm. "Look, Caeled, look. Baddalaur!"
     The boy's eyes followed his pointing finger. For a
    moment he saw nothing but a procession of mountain
    peaks rising into an eggshell-blue sky. Then clouds drifted
    before the face of Nusas the Sun; their shadows fled
    across the panorama, pursued by rays of slanting light that
    threw the scene into stark relief
     Caeled found himself gazing across the next valley at a
    vision that made him forget his pain.
     Once the rock shoulder of the mountain on the other
    side of the valley had vaguely suggested the front half of a
    crouching lion. Generations of builders and craftsmen
    had reinterpreted and refined the image. Now Baddalaur
    was shaped like a warrior sitting tall and proud in a
    high-backed chair, forearms stretched along the arms of
    the chair, feet planted solidly on the ground.
     The cloud dissipated. The full brilliance of Nusas
    blazed across the mountains, destroying shadows, wiping
    away the impression of the seated man.
     Caeled squinted in astonishment. All he could see was
    a bald mountainside with polished cliff faces riddled with
    dark holes. Insects appeared to be crawling in and out of
    the holes.
      'The seated man is supposed to represent Bardal,"

    




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    SILVERHAND
    
    Armadiel said. 'There is evidence that the mountain was
    worshipped in antiquity. A thousand men now live in the
    mountain, in a series of caverns."
      ",tkre they A Seekers?" Caeled wondered. His eyes
    were still wide and staring as he sought details on the
    mountain. He realized now that what he had first taken
    for insects were actually people going in and out of eaves
    and moving along walkways carved into the mountainside.
      "Less than half are Seekefs. An almost equal number
    are Scholars of the Order, and the remainder are visiting
    scholars and priests from a dozen different religions.
    Baddalaur ha's one of the finest libraries in the world."
      'What do you do now that you are no longer
    Lawgivers?" the boy wanted to know.
      "We study, we teach, we heal. Some of us are poets,
    some keep the histories."
      "Why? Why are you a Seeker?"
      Armadiel bent his head to hide a smile. It was questics
    he had asked himself. He was not a natural scholar, hi
    lacked the patience, as he lacked the prodigious memor)
    required of a great teacher. He knew he had been ~
    disappointment to the Order, which once had high hope:
    that he might be the Spoken One. Yet he retained ,
    certain prestige. He was one of the few Seekers who wa
    encouraged to leave Baddalaur to gather informatioi
    from the towns and villages. Whenever the Hieromonacl
    needed a courier, Armadiel was invariably entrusted wit]
    the messages. He was reliable and relied upon, but tha
    was not enough. He did not know why he was
    Seeker . . . yes, he did know, if he had the courage t
    admit it to himself. It was because he had nowhere else t
    
    go.
     "I am a Seeker so I can collect knowledge,- he said!
    answer to Caele&s question.
      "Why do you want knowledge? What do you do wit
    it?"
      'We gather it, record it, cross-reference it .  H

    




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    voice trailed away as he realized just how trivial it
    sounded. He said with a sigh, "Nothing stays the same,
    boy. The world you see around you today is not the world
    of tomorrow. We need information to enable us to plan
    for the morrow."
     The twisting trail they were following was suddenly
    enveloped in thick mist. The horse stopped, reluctant to
    move forward blindly. The experience N;Wth the shale slide
    had made the gelding wary.
     'What can you see now?" Armadiel asked Caeled.
     "Nothing."
     "But you know we are on our way to Baddalaur?"
     The boy nodded.
     'The future is a little like this path," Armadiel told him.
    'We know it is there, at the end of our journey. We're
    simply not sure how to proceed."
     "No man knows the future," Caeled said. The mist was
    not only thick, but bitterly cold, making his teeth chatter
    in spite of Armadiel's cloak around him.
     'There are many futures," Armadiel continued, urging
    the horse to pick its way forward because he felt the boy
    shivering. "Some are more likely than others. Baddalaur's
    finest Scholars agree that there is one potentially great
    future, and say the Seekers have a role to play in the
    shaping of that future. We are working towards that end.
    Mankind advances through order and knowledge. The
    Seekers are dedicated to both."
     'The mist is clearing," Caeled remarked thankfully. At
    that moment two shapes materialized beside the trail.
    Caeled gave a start, setting his injured arm to aching
    again.
      "Hold up, Seeker-man!"
      A man completely enveloped in a shaggy cloak loomed
     out of the fog. A hood was pulled forward down over his
     brow and a scarf wrapped across the lower part of his
    
    Armadiel reined in his mount. The horse stopped with

    




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  his muscles bunched as if expecting to flee from danger.
      A second hooded man stepped forward holding a hea
      black crossbow at the ready. The barbed bolt was pointi
      directly at Caeled's chest.
      "What do you want?" Armadiel demanded.
      The first stranger lifted a crossbow of his own, tald
    aim at the man on the horse. "I want you to keep y(
    hands where I can see them."
      "I am a simple Seeker," Armadiel protested. "I h~
    nothing to give you." .
      "Oh, you can give us plenty, Seeker-man." The hooc'
    man came closer and Caeled's nostrils quivered at the f
    smell of him. 'Warm clothes, weapons, the contents of y
    bags - and of course your horse. Good eating in that."
      "I am taking this sick boy to the Healing Chapel
    Baddalaur," Armadiel said evenly. "If you follow me, 1,
    ensure that you are given food and clothes."
      "Is that the same promise your lot made to Moba
    snarled the second man. He stepped up to the hoi
    head and threw back his hood to reveal a skeletal-i
    face. His skull was covered with old scars. He jab
    Armadiel in the leg with his crossbow. "You remerr
    Moban? He came begging at your postern gate and
    turned him away. And when he crept in that night
    stole some food and a blanket to keep alive, you See'.
    impaled him as an example."
      "I remember the man. Thickset, he was, with a sci
    beard and beady eyes. He killed a Scholar," Armc,
    replied.
      "If you had given him bread, he wouldn't have k
    anyone. Now give us the horse, your clothes and weal
    and you can go."
      "You're condemning us to death! We'll freeze here.
      "It took Moban three days to die," the hooded
    snapped. "I just offered you a much kinder death
    impaling."          ?
      He suddenly lifted the,crossbow and fired.

    




    er
    
    d
    
    ons,
    
     an
    than
    
    Morgan Llywelyn & Michael Scott
    
    95
    
     Later, much later, Caeled recalled the sequence of
    events clearly. He had heard the wet snick of leather as
    the crossbow fired. Almost simultaneously there was a
    sharp clap over his head. He had expected Armadiel to
    topple off the horse's rump, shot through the heart, but
    when he looked back at him the Seeker was holding the
    crossbow bolt in his gloved hand. He had snatched it out
    of the air when the head was barely a finger's breadth
    away from his chest.
     Then almost as if time had slowed, Caeled watched as
    Annadiel reversed the bolt and drove it point first into the
    second man's scarred skull. The force of the blow and the
    internal pressure it caused distorted his face, bulging his
    eyeballs from their sockets. Before he could fall Armadiel
    had snatched the already loaded crossbow from his hands.
    The Seeker pulled the bolt from the dead man's skull as
    he pitched sideways and fitted it into the weapon.
    Astonishment paralyzed the other man long enough for
    Armadiel to shoot him through his gaping mouth. The
    blow sent him spinning off into the mist.
     Neither man nor boy spoke for the rest of the journey
    to Baddalaur.
    
     Caeled awoke as he was being lifted off the horse and
    laid on a thick blanket on the ground. There were people
    A around him and he was momentarily terrified until
    Armadiel took his hand and squeezed. "You're safe now,
    boy. The Healers will take you to their chapel and
    He stopped as an old man appeared, carrying an
    elaborately carved staff. The gathered crowd - all male,
    all bald - moved back as the old man approached.
     He's blind, Caeled realized, looking up at eyes like
    polished white stones. Strangely familiar eyes.
     'Tou have done well, Brother Armadiel." The voice of
    the Hieromonach was strong, powerful, belying his frail

    




    96
    
    SILVERHAND
    
     'Thank you, Brother Maseriel."
     "I understand you had a problem with the bandits o
    the mountain."
     Armadiel shrugged. "It was nothing."
     "Rest now, and on the morrow, take twenty Seeke
    and eradicate them. They must trouble us no more."
     With an effort that made his joints creak, the old m
    knelt by Caeled's side and placed a hand on his chest.
    boy stiffened, feeling energy flow into him. Then the ol
    man began to shudder, a trembling that started at
    fingertips and ran through his entire body. Waves of he
    poured from him into Caeled, thunderous waves like su
    beating upon the shore. The feeling was so intense th
    boy writhed, trying to escape, but Maseriel grasped hi
    shoulder and held him with a grip of terrifying strength.
     "Do not move," hissed the white-eyed man.
     He bent lower, as if peering into Caele&s face with
    blind eyes. "Is it you?" he murmured several times. "Is
    you?"
     Then he flung himself backward with a loud cry
    reverberated through the mountains. "Aaaiii! Our praye
    are answered!"
     TWO Seekers came and lifted the old man to his fee
    and Caeled saw that he was weepmig.
     'AVhat's wrong?" the boy asked as Armadiel crouche
    down beside him.
      "Nothing."
     'Why is he so sad?'
     "He isn't. Brother Maseriel has waited a lifetime
    this moment. He weeps for joy."

    




    CHArTER f1frJEJE4 N
    
     ... addendum to the History of the Day.
     There is now no doubt. The boy is the one, the
    Spoken One, and I am honored that I should be
    Hieromonach at this most auspicious of times.
     This is indeed a joyous day for the Order, a day
    which emphasizes the importance of acknowledging
    and understanding the ancient lore. One hundred
    generations ago, Ekezial walked the lines of the future
    and saw the coming of this boy. In the Collected
    Writings, he tells us that the boy will be "a cripple, sick
    and close to death," and that "his condition will mirror
    the condition of the land." According to the records,
    two hundred boys have been brought to Baddalaur,
    twenty of them in my own lifetime, but none have been
    so ob-viously identified with the prophecy.
     The boy is indeed a cripple, and sick unto death.
    None can deny that the Seven Nations are equally ill -
    sick with depravity, their health destroyed by the
    excesses of the Duet. Likewise, the Nations and the
    border lands are crippled - crippled by debt they can
    never repay, crippled by the Duet's increasingly
    dangerous misuse of elemental forces. There can be no
    doubt; the Duet are stripping the energy from the
    earth.
     If the boy survives we will train him to be our
    instrument to use against them. He will make the
    Nations great again. He will inspire the Seekers and
    