‘Artesans of Albia.’ Book One: ‘King’s Envoy.’ 

Chapter One. 

The eerie glow of the substrate Well hovered over the depression in the cellar floor. Artesan-Journeyman Taran Elijah tore his gaze away from this breach in the Veils and glanced across into Ruth’s worried grey eyes. He smiled reassuringly, trying to conceal the fact that even he wasn’t as certain as he should have been about the safety of his plan. His voice echoed faintly around the cellar’s rocky walls.

‘I have to do this, Ruth, it’s the only thing I haven’t tried.’

‘But you’ll be alone,’ she protested, her gaze flicking to the sword by his side. ‘What if you don’t win the challenge? What if you’re wounded? Shouldn’t you at least take Ric with you?’

Taran’s hazel eyes softened at this offer as he knew that taking Ricard with him was actually the last thing Ruth wanted him to do. Her concern touched him deeply and he looked away from her anxious face, framed by her long dark hair. His eyes met those of his Apprentice instead and he knew that Ric would go with him should he ask it. But no matter how well-considered Ruth’s advice, or how sincerely Taran wished he could take it, there was a very good reason why the dark-skinned Ricard could not accompany his master.

‘I need Ric to stay here and guard the Well, Ruth, I’ve already told you that. It’s my lifeline and I’m taking a huge risk leaving it open as it is. Not setting Ric to guard it would be . . .’ He faltered. He had been going to say “one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done,” but didn’t want to tempt Fate. Embarrassment and failure had dogged Taran’s heels and never more so than during the five years since the death of his father. This trip into the Fifth Realm would finally enable him to overcome them, setting him on the path of learning once more.

Or so he hoped.

Gathering his resolve, he grinned at his Apprentice. ‘Anyway, Ric needs the practice. I have every faith in him, Ruth, and I’ll be perfectly safe, so stop worrying. I’m only going to be away for the rest of today and maybe tomorrow. It shouldn’t take me too long to find what I’m looking for. My father was always telling me how many more Artesans there are in Andaryon than here in Albia, and his notes have given me all the information I need on the protocol of the duel. Once I’ve found someone of sufficient rank and challenged him, the rest will be down to my skill. And it’s not as if we’ll even be fighting to first blood; I only need to force a draw. After that, I can bargain for the teaching I need. So I’ll be back before you’ve had time to miss me. You just concentrate on looking after Ric and remember; I’m relying on both of you.’

Forcing his mind away from Ruth’s misgivings Taran glanced back at the Well. Firmly anchored within the substrate, it was the smallest, tightest structure he could form whilst still allowing him access through the Veils. There was nothing more to wait for. He checked for a final time that he had everything he needed although in truth, he was taking little enough: The sword his father had given him once he was old enough to wield it, his pack, containing a little food, and his bedroll. They should be enough to see him through this enterprise, along with the skills of his arm. And those skills should be more than adequate for the purpose as every young Albian male learned how to use a sword and Taran was no exception. He knew he was more than competent with the weapon and now his training would be put to good use.

He looked across at his friends, seeing how Ric had drawn close to Ruth. The lovers stood side by side, lines of worry still marking Ruth’s face, as they watched Taran prepare to depart. Forcing a smile, the Journeyman drew a deep breath, stepped into the shimmer of the Well and vanished.

*          *          *

The door to the cell crashed open and Raskin jumped in guilty panic, cursing the sudden hammer of his heart. He had been expecting his uncle after all and would have far worse to face than Lord Sonten’s wrath if what they were planning should fail. But their initial challenge had borne fruit thanks to Raskin’s diligence, and he would have to master his reactions more efficiently if he was to continue supporting Sonten’s gamble.

Willing his heart to slow, he inhaled deeply through his nose. He looked up from the strange metallic object on the table and met the avid gaze of his uncle, whose slit-pupilled eyes sat deep within his fleshy face.

Sonten’s voice rasped into the chilly gloom of the cell.

‘Well boy, have you done it? Can you make the damned thing work?’

Sonten’s body quivered with tension as his fat fingers gripped the door-jamb. He took in his nephew’s sweating face and the unconcealed triumph in the frost-blue eyes; triumph spreading to a grin, showing gleaming white teeth, and overriding the weariness as the youth responded, ‘Yes, Uncle, of course I can. Didn’t I tell you all I needed was privacy and time?’

Approaching the table, Sonten stared down at the innocent-seeming artefact his nephew had bent to his will. It fascinated him despite his fear.

‘But will he notice?’ he demanded, lifting his eyes to Raskin’s. ‘Will he sense what you’ve done?’

All his far-reaching plans for the future were focused in this room. His hopes and dreams, hitherto denied him by a cruel twist of breeding, were now brewing in this cell beneath the palace of his overlord. For Sonten was no Artesan and therein lay the curse of his dilemma. In a society where success, advancement, and even nobility depended on strength and personal power, Sonten lacked the gift of controlling his own metaforce.

Descending only through the male line in Andaryans, the talent had somehow passed Sonten by. Bitterly disappointed by his son’s metaphysical sterility, Sonten’s father had withered into melancholy, eventually taking his own life. He left his despised son a province beggared by neglect. In a desperate attempt to generate wealth, Sonten forced his older sister into a loveless and violent marriage which she did not survive. And when Sonten realised that Raskin, her only offspring, had inherited the vital Artesan gift, he murdered his brother-by-marriage and took the lad for his own, along with the wealth of the youngster’s inheritance.

Knowing only that his parents had died, Raskin was raised by his uncle, privy to his plans and pivotal in their success. The first major step toward achieving these plans had come when Sonten finally persuaded his overlord the Duke, a dangerous and ruthless man but also a powerful Artesan, to train the young Raskin in the control of his metaforce. The sly ousting of the black-haired northern lord who was hoping to gain the Heirless Duke’s favour for his own gifted son was a matter of no consequence to Sonten. Trampling on those who were weaker or slower to seize the advantage was regarded as natural progression by the ambitious general. It was Sonten’s opinion that no-one advanced in life by waiting for fortune to seek them out; chances and opportunities had to be made. The lifelong enmity of this minor lord did not trouble the general’s conscience.

But whatever other qualities Sonten possessed, he lacked an innate understanding of an Artesan’s skills. Raskin constantly had to reassure him and explain. The youth stared at his uncle, seeing the underlying fear and knowing its cause. They trod a dangerous path, these two, accepting a great measure of risk. For if his Grace the Duke should learn of their deception, their deaths would be as swift as they would be brutal. Their overlord had a fearsome reputation and Raskin had no desire to incur such powerful wrath.

Leaning back in his chair he said, ‘No, Uncle; as I told you before I’ve only used my knowledge of his Grace’s matrix. I’ve influenced the thing, not taken over mastery. I doubt I could do that anyway, I’m nowhere near as strong as the Duke. But I’ve left no imprint on it and no clues as to my meddling.’

‘So what’s our next step?’ demanded Sonten, his greedy eyes fixed on the shimmering metal object. ‘His Grace will return from the hunt within the hour; we can do no more today.’

Raskin ran a hand through sweaty hair. ‘Well I need to bathe,’ he said, and grinned suddenly at the flash of annoyance on Sonten’s red-flushed face. It was not what his uncle meant and they both knew it. Wearily, Raskin rose, his green-edged black cape falling about his slim frame. Reaching out, he picked up the artefact, noting how Sonten shifted uneasily away as the metal flared briefly. He was right to be wary, reflected the youth, for the staff was a dangerous instrument; one capable, among other things, of stealing and transferring to the wielder what power the victim possessed. The rare materials of its construction alone had cost the Duke more than his province was worth; without the aid of his outland allies it would never have existed.

Thinking of those allies soured Raskin’s mood. They had their uses, he supposed, but he didn’t trust the Albian Baron and the Baron’s strange but powerful “associate” – captive was nearer the mark, the youth thought grimly – positively sickened him. He hoped his uncle had taken them into account when formulating his plans.

Handling the artefact carefully, he replaced it in the padded iron chest exactly as it had been before, and closed the heavy lid. The Duke rarely touched it these days; he had laboured for many sweaty hours to imbue it with his personal power and was now waiting for the right time to use it. However, it would not do to trust his restraint and one slight suspicion was all it would take. So Raskin locked the chest as usual and gave the key to his uncle, who placed it in the pouch about his waist.

‘I’ll need to conduct an experiment,’ said Raskin. ‘I need a subject to test my control but I can hardly use one of those poor wretches his Grace has imprisoned. We would be hard put to explain ourselves if the attempt should go wrong and besides, I need someone unsuspecting, someone stronger than those peasants. Not one of them is higher than Apprentice and if I am to succeed in what we have planned then I need to be sure the artefact can do what his Grace has been led to believe. So we must choose our victim and our moment carefully. We should remove ourselves from the palace; give ourselves time to search out someone suitable.’

‘But that will be even riskier than this,’ objected Sonten. ‘The planned raids are likely to be implemented any day now and he wants me here to oversee them. How will we explain our absence?’

The young man shrugged. ‘I’ll leave that up to you,’ he said. ‘Surely you can invent some reason for returning briefly to Durkos? This is vitally important, Uncle, make no mistake. I need to be confident I can overcome the Duke and so I need to experiment. We knew it would be risky, we both accepted that. And we both know that time is running out. Once the war starts our opportunity will be gone.’

Narrowing his eyes Sonten growled, ‘Damn that Albian Baron for pushing his Grace into this! Surely there are more important concerns than one human female? Whatever possessed the Duke to agree to such a plan?’

‘She’s a very powerful human female, Uncle, and you know what his Grace is like where women are concerned. Besides, it will vastly increase his chances if he can take control of her powers. If it makes you feel any better, I have a feeling his Grace is only using the Baron while it suits him. I’ll wager that once he’s made his challenge and taken the throne, he’ll deal with the little weasel as he deserves.’

Sonten’s eyes gleamed in the torchlight. ‘And then we’ll make our move,’ he gloated. His jowls quivered unpleasantly and Raskin turned away. Feasting was Sonten’s way of compensating himself for the blows Fate had dealt him but the heave of his flesh repelled his slim nephew. Sonten was his Grace’s senior general and in Raskin’s opinion, a fat general was unable to wield a blade effectively and risked ridicule from his men. While Raskin subscribed whole-heartedly to the Andaryan custom of leading from the rear, he took care to train regularly. The respect which was frequently beaten into the men was far more effective when administered by their own commander, and Raskin was a talented swordsman.

‘But before we can consider making that move,’ he reminded his uncle, ‘I need to test my control. There’s no use going any further unless we know I can take the Duke. Once we’re sure, we can choose our time. I’ll leave it to you to arrange our absence; you know his Grace’s movements better than I do. And now I really do need to change. If the Duke calls for me when he returns, I’ll be hard-pressed to explain my dishevelment. And if I’m to conceal my actions from any possible probing, I’ll need to get some rest.

‘You’d better compose yourself too, Uncle; you’re looking far too smug for my liking. This is a small victory, yes, but we’re a long way from the ultimate prize. Don’t give us away by arousing his suspicions.’

‘How dare you lecture me, you young pup,’ growled Sonten. He cuffed at Raskin’s shoulder as the young man moved towards the door. Raskin grinned and dodged the meaty fist, taking the steps leading up from the cell two at a time. Sonten was left puffing up behind him, the light of victory avid in his eyes.

*          *          *

Irritably, Taran wiped sweat from his forehead. He had not expected Andaryon to be so hot – it was autumn, after all – and his clothes were sticking unpleasantly to his skin. But evening was fast coming on and the night would be cool; he could feel it in the air. Darkness would at least bring relief from the heat if it brought nothing else.

The Journeyman glared at his surroundings in frustration. It was just like his luck that the Andaryan end of the Well should open in the middle of a range of hills rather than cultivated lands. And abandoned hills they seemed to be too. In the rising heat-haze Taran could see no more than a mile even from their crests and had no way of knowing where habitations might be found. He cursed again that his lack of strength and skill meant he couldn’t control the opening of the Well. But then, he reflected wryly, if he had possessed such skill, he would not have needed to attempt this venture. And anyway, he had no detailed knowledge of the Fifth Realm to tell him where its people might be found. Sighing, he continued his lonely trek.

The harsh low scrub covering the hills seemed to waver in the heat and there was little shade. The atmosphere was oppressive, like the air before a storm. Taran committed his route to memory as he moved further away from the Well, resolved to carry out his plan. This was his very last chance; he must either make the best of it or resign himself to failure.

Taran was desperate to fulfill his potential. Born with the Artesan gift, his early efforts had been shaped by his father. Amanus was a hard taskmaster, impossible to please, and Taran struggled under his tutelage. Despite the disparaging comments however, Taran succeeded in reaching the rank of Journeyman before the wasting sickness claimed Amanus’s life, and the achievement fuelled his thirst for knowledge. Amanus was Adept-Elite, two full levels above Journeyman, and Taran set this rank as his goal. But he would be hard-pressed to achieve it no matter how hard he tried.

Over the years, the Artesan gift had been steadily declining and most Albians viewed it with mistrust. Those who did possess it and failed to hide it were often scorned, or even shunned. Only Artesans possessed the ability to cross the Veils separating the Five Realms, and the habit of the more warlike races – Relkorians and Andaryans in particular – of sending raiding parties into largely peaceful Albia had served to plant the notion that Artesans used their powers to oppress. Ordinary Albians, the majority of whom had always been giftless, had turned their backs on this rare and precious ability. The dwindling numbers of children who were born with it learned – or were forced – very early on to deny it.

Taran’s dreams of furthering his craft died with his father and his many attempts to find another tutor all ended in disappointment. As did his efforts to teach himself. His experiments went awry, his trials ended in failure, and his incompetence was driving him mad Hence this hazardous journey into the Fifth Realm where Artesans were valued, and where he hoped he might win himself the teaching he craved.

So far his efforts had cost him sweat and won him nothing. He had not seen a single sign of habitation all afternoon; not a footprint, not a wreath of smoke, not a sound that might lead him to people. He panted up yet another low hill and shaded his eyes against the red blaze of a rapidly setting sun. Cursing under his breath, all he could see was heat-haze, and he closed his eyes against the glare. A stray wisp of evening breeze lifted the damp hair at his neck and he turned to face it, welcoming its coolness. Opening his eyes again he stared, for a dark line that could only be trees stretched away to his left. He peered at it before making up his mind but even if the forest was as empty as the hills, at least the trees promised shelter from tomorrow’s sweltering heat. Shouldering his pack and gritting his teeth, Taran made for the trees.

It was nearly dark by the time he emerged from the last of the hills. The forest had lured him and he had hoped to reach it before nightfall. Now he saw that although the hills ended sooner than he had thought, the haze had deceived him and the trees were actually further than they seemed. It would be folly to go on in the darkness. He would be better off camping in this shrubby little copse and making for the forest in daylight.

Letting his pack fall to the ground, he set about lighting a fire. The surrounding scrub was tinder-dry and he shielded his meager flame well. Once he had eaten, he stamped it out; he had his blanket and would not risk a brush-fire. Wrapping himself warmly, he settled down again. Reaching within himself for his matrix and surrounding his psyche with metaforce, he sent a call to Ricard.

His Apprentice answered immediately, reassuring Taran with his watchfulness. Not that the Journeyman distrusted Ric, but the younger man was far less experienced even than Taran and was being drained by the effort of maintaining the Well. However, Taran could feel that the drain was not too severe and Ric would be able to sleep while keeping the structure alive. This was vitally important to Taran, as the Well was his guarantee of return.

Formed of Earth-element and the mysterious substance of the Veils, Taran had brought the Well into being by exerting his will on the substrate. Weaving both his and Ric’s metaforce into the structure, he anchored it so it would stand alone. It only needed Ric’s physical presence to maintain it now; the slight seepage of the young man’s life-force as it fed would not be too great.

It was not something Taran would normally do, leaving this gateway open. It was hugely risky and against every rule his father had taught him. But if he closed the Well behind him, he would lose his link to home and would be forced to construct a new one when he wanted to return. With his Journeyman’s skills insufficient to direct the opening of a Well, he might end up many miles from his village, leaving him a long and difficult journey home through Albian countryside. So he decided to ignore the risk, setting his dark-skinned Apprentice on guard.

Satisfied that Ric was alert and in control, Taran broke their link. Ricard did not yet have the skill to contact Taran directly; such strength came only with training and although he was making progress, Ric still had some way to go. Having reassured his Apprentice that all was well, Taran composed himself to rest. Drawing on the power of his matrix before his mind descended into sleep he cast it into the earth around him, trusting his senses to wake him should he be approached in the night.

Not that there was much chance of it, the voice of his frustration said. He had the nastiest feeling that this venture was doomed to failure, just like all the rest.

Chapter Two.

Deep in thought, his jowls sunk onto his chest, Sonten rode through the early morning sunlight. Two days, he fretted. He and Raskin had managed to get the Duke’s grudging permission to return to Durkos, Sonten’s own province, for just two days in order to deal with a completely fabricated peasant uprising. They were under strict instructions to return as soon as possible; the planned raids were imminent and the Duke expected his general to oversee them.

It really wasn’t necessary, thought Sonten irritably. His commander, Heron, had been thoroughly briefed and knew exactly what was required of him, and the commander of the Duke’s personal forces, Verris, knew better than to disobey his Grace. Sonten’s only nagging doubt was whether the two men would be able to work together; Verris was inclined to be superior with Heron as he was the Duke’s man rather than Sonten’s. Sonten was relying on Heron’s good sense to diffuse any awkward situations.

But if his Grace required Sonten’s presence, then Sonten had to obey. He was totally dependent on the Duke’s continued patronage if he wanted to share in his rise, although he intended to do far more than share it if this experiment succeeded. Hugging his glee close to his heart, Sonten and his nephew rode towards the western border forest.

They had an escort of eight huntsmen from Raskin’s retinue and two of Sonten’s were-eagles. Raskin was against bringing the monstrous raptors; he needed his victims alive and preferably unhurt, not lacerated by talons or even decapitated by the ferocious beasts. Sonten assured his nephew that they were for sport and show only; he knew how important this venture was. They rode through the hills towards the forest villages in search of some peasant Artesan, some low-born talent who would never rise above the lowly status fate had dealt him. Durkos had many of these as Sonten was not given to elevating low-borns; especially not those who possessed the gift he lacked.

The day promised much heat; Andaryan summers were fierce and the high temperatures often persisted long into autumn. The hills they rode through were dry and dusty, scorched by the summer sun. As they descended the final hill and approached a shadowed copse not yet warmed by the early light, the leading huntsman, who had been scouting ahead, approached Raskin.

‘There’s a camp up ahead, my Lord,’ he reported. ‘One man only, still sleeping. By his gear, I’d say he’s Albian.’

Narrowing his pale eyes, Raskin shot the general a glance. ‘Did you hear that, Uncle? An Albian trespassing on your land. You know what that means, don’t you?’

Sonten returned his nephew’s grin. The fellow had to be an Artesan if he was an outlander, and outlanders – especially Albians – were fair game. The young bloods of the nobility traditionally cut their warrior teeth by raiding the other realms and Albia was a prime target with its many isolated and vulnerable villages. It was for this reason that most Albian males trained regularly with sword, longbow or crossbow, and the military forces of Albia’s High King were much occupied in dealing with outland raiders. Raskin was responsible for a fair number of attacks himself, even though the Hierarch, supreme ruler of Andaryon, had issued an edict forbidding it twenty years ago. In defiance of this, the young noble had fought many running battles with King Elias of Albia’s men.

‘Looks like luck’s on our side,’ commented Sonten, nudging his stocky horse closer. ‘But how will you know what rank he is? What if he’s more powerful than you?’

Raskin tossed his uncle a confident grin. ‘Oh, don’t worry; I’m not about to wade in without some assurance of my safety. I want the first one to be off-guard and unprepared. Until I know exactly how the staff works, I don’t want to be facing a shielded man.’

‘So what do you intend?’

‘I’m going to challenge him to a duel, Uncle. I’m quite within my rights; he is trespassing after all. I want you to stay back while I do this; stay out of his sight if you can and leave me to deal with him. It’s highly unlikely he’ll beat me but if it looks as though he might, I’ll call on the staff. Oh, and I want that kept out of sight as well until I need it. He won’t know what it is but as he’s an Artesan he might sense the power it contains. You’ll have to hold it for me until I’m ready to use it.’

Sonten paled. The thing terrified him with its strangely shimmering colours and mind-stealing potential.

Seeing his expression, Raskin grinned. ‘It can’t hurt you, Uncle; I’ve told you that before. It only responds to an Artesan’s touch and as you have absolutely no talent whatsoever, you’re perfectly safe.’

‘Thank you for that, boy,’ growled Sonten, stung as always by any reference to his handicap. But he reached out and accepted the dreadful thing from his nephew’s hand, concealing it within the folds of his blue-edged cloak. He hung back among the huntsmen as Raskin rode slowly forwards.

The young noble could see the sparse camp and the sleeping man, undisturbed by the sun which was still concealed behind the hills. The approach of ten armed men had not alerted him either and when Raskin dismounted and came closer, he discovered why.

The man, who looked to be about four years older than Raskin himself, was certainly an Artesan as he had laid out tendrils of metaforce before retiring. He was obviously relying on them to alert him to any danger. Raskin grinned unpleasantly. The man had to be above Apprentice to be able to lay such a mesh, but the noble doubted he was higher than Journeyman or he would have sensed the proximity of another Artesan. So then, thought Raskin, either an experienced Apprentice-Elite or a very inexperienced Journeyman. Perfect.

Stepping in closer, he deliberately triggered the man’s warning system.

His senses pricking him, Taran leapt to his feet, flinging the blanket aside and snatching up his sword. He stopped short, biting back a curse, when he registered the confident stance of the young man before him. He had every reason to be confident, Taran realised, with a retinue of armed hunters at his back. The Journeyman’s heart fell as he waited for the other to speak.

‘You’re trespassing, Albian.’

The young man’s arrogant manner and the richness of his clothing confirmed Taran’s immediate suspicions: he was facing a member of the Andaryan nobility. His sleep-muddled mind struggled to frame a reply but he wasn’t given the leisure.

‘The penalty for trespass is death.’

Taran stared uneasily at the noble, knowing he was trapped. As yet, the huntsmen stood with bows un-nocked but he knew how swiftly they could draw and shoot if he made a threatening move. The two enormous were-eagles, hooded and leashed to their wooden cradles, could be loosed on him in an instant should he try to run. His only chance lay in his purpose, and the bargain he hoped to make.

He opened his mouth to answer but was again forestalled.

‘However, I came out this day for sport. What do you say to a duel, Albian; a duel to determine your fate? If you win, you’re free to leave; if you lose . . . you submit to my will.’

The young man’s frost-pale eyes were strangely avid and he fingered the hilt of his sword as he spoke. The motion drew Taran’s gaze. Events were moving a little fast for him despite this seemingly favourable turn. He had not expected things to work out like this – he would have preferred to make the challenge himself – but in the end, did it matter? And what choice did he have? The noble had him at a severe disadvantage and would be within his rights if he decided to kill Taran out of hand. Even if he wasn’t, there was nothing Taran could do about it. No-one would protect him if he could not protect himself.

Gathering his courage, he faced the noble. The Andaryan might be younger but Taran had faith in his skills. He was the taller of the two and he was slim, agile and fit. He had no reason to believe he would not win. The youth was also an Artesan; Taran could sense it. He didn’t know what rank but that wasn’t important at this stage. His father’s notes indicated that Taran only had to force a draw to win the right to the noble’s aid. If it turned out that he wasn’t skilled enough to teach Taran himself, his duty required him to find someone who was.

‘I accept your challenge, noble,’ said Taran, missing the gleam of triumph in the younger man’s gaze. The slit-pupilled eyes characteristic of the Andaryan race made his facial expressions unfamiliar to Taran; he would have to be very careful when reading his moves in the duel.

Watching from among the huntsmen, Sonten’s heart filled with contempt. The Albian was alone which was foolish enough; what was he doing accepting such challenges as if he had a choice? Where was his Second, to agree the rules of combat? Didn’t he know that without witnesses, any such agreements were void? Sonten snorted derisively when he realised the Albian wasn’t even going to bargain terms with Raskin. The Andaryans’ love of duelling, and the complicated haggling which preceded such bouts, were well-known throughout the realms; this outlander must be naïve indeed if he thought Raskin’s honour alone would constrain him to the Codes. The general huffed in scorn; there was no honour to be lost when fighting outlanders.

Sonten began to relax. His nephew’s plan had worried him and carried an unwonted measure of risk but if his chosen opponent was so ignorant of the Codes, then he wouldn’t be much of a threat. Sonten could enjoy watching Raskin fight and then their first experimental use of the staff would bring them another step closer to success. Imperiously, he elbowed the nearest huntsman and the man moved out of his line of sight, spreading his cloak over the general’s head to shield him from the sun. Sonten saw Raskin glance over his shoulder towards him and he acknowledged the gesture, indicating the length of the weapon where it rested against his thigh. Crossing his arms over his ample chest, he watched as the duel commenced.

Taran and Raskin moved away from the huntsmen, giving themselves room to manoeuvre. Their eyes were locked and their bodies poised, and Taran formally raised his sword. With no warning, Raskin’s blade flashed out and slashed at Taran’s chest, treacherously ignoring the traditional combatants’ salute. It was a killing stroke. Caught off-guard and wrong-footed, Taran parried awkwardly, only just sliding out of the way.

He opened his mouth to protest but the younger man didn’t give him time, immediately lunging forward with another strike which rang loudly off Taran’s hastily raised blade. The contemptuous look in Raskin’s eye told its own story and Taran realised protest was futile. The nobleman was after sport and Taran was the prey; there would be no quarter given and no respect paid to the rules.

Already humiliated by his failure to rouse at Raskin’s approach and now dismayed by this flagrant disregard for the Codes, Taran struggled to force his mind back onto sword-play. He must not to let his fear and outrage interfere with his skill. Those opening strikes, underhanded though they were, had alerted him to the talent he was facing. The noble would not be an easy conquest; he was fighting on his own soil and by his own terms. Taran was the usurper, the outlander, and he was alone. For the first time since conceiving the plan, Taran acknowledged this potential flaw. However, it was too late now, he was locked into this fate, and he threw himself into the combat, determined not to lose.

He cut and blocked, grateful that his skill had saved him from injury during those first deceitful moves. His pulse raced, his adversary was coming at him again, slashing at his unprotected left, causing Taran to veer sharply to the side. He swept his sword around, hoping to catch Raskin unbalanced, but the Andaryan danced out of the way.

The two men circled warily, searching for weak points. The relentless sun was rising and soon they were sweating profusely. They fought ferociously across their arena, struggling back and forth, finding themselves too evenly matched. Sunlight struck blindingly from steel as their blades clashed and rang; their laboured breathing came grunting through their throats.

Both men were bleeding, both bruised and sore, but still neither could gain the mastery. Taran, his early anger now forgotten in this struggle to survive, was beginning to despair for a strange heaviness was weighing his arm and he was having trouble holding his own. It dismayed him; his stamina was usually greater than this. But his concentration was centred on his opponent’s latest flurry of vicious cuts and it took him a while to figure out what was happening.

He couldn’t understand it; what he suspected should not be possible. He and the noble hadn’t learned each other’s matrices, there was no way the other man could be affecting Taran’s life-force. But it was undeniable. Insidiously, and contrary to all the rules and Codes, the Andaryan was somehow draining metaforce from Taran’s psyche and using it to empower himself. Outraged and confused, Taran’s mind shut down like a steel trap, cutting off the other’s leaching force. In panic, he accessed his matrix and used his own Artesan skills to bolster his flagging strength.

‘Foul,’ yelled Raskin instantly. ‘The use of metaforce is forbidden by the Codes!’

His triumphant cry carried clearly to the watching huntsmen. Infuriated by this hypocrisy, Taran suddenly understood that he had walked straight into a cleverly laid trap. Humiliated anew, he realised his predicament. He could not impeach Raskin, it was too late; and anyway, there was no-one to believe him.

With futile clarity, Taran recalled a half-seen glance and gesture exchanged between the noble and his hidden older companion. Coupled with the strange eager light in the young Andaryan’s eyes, these signs should have warned Taran something was badly amiss. But it was far too late now and this new failure only increased his frustration.

Enraged at the deception and shamed that he had fallen so easily for it Taran attacked his opponent with a burst of vicious strokes. The noble gave way before them but there was a knowing look in his eye. Now Taran understood – with another flash of hindsight – that he had planned for this all along and never had any intention of keeping his side of the contract. With no witnesses to speak for him, Taran was totally unprotected. He would have cursed savagely if only he had the strength.

A strident call sounded from the sidelines. ‘Use your own powers,’ shouted Sonten, guessing what Raskin had done. ‘He’s broken the rules, after all!’

Alone and friendless, Taran realised the full extent of his peril. Cold fear swept through him and humiliation threatened to swamp him, stealing what little strength he had left. But then a surge of righteous rage flooded his soul. He might have been careless and foolish in allowing his opponent to accuse him but he wasn’t the one who had broken the Codes.

Raskin’s treacherous act meant he was free to access his own powers. He did so swiftly and not before time as Raskin, in response to Sonten’s call, formed a ball of Earth-element and flung it at the Journeyman’s feet. Taran stumbled before he could counter it; and now they were fighting on two levels. This was highly dangerous as it was impossible to concentrate on both swordplay and power skills at the same time. Fate shivered icily down Taran’s spine; this bout would end in his death unless he could defeat the young man.

Exhausted though he was, he redoubled his efforts.

Striving to hold his concentration, Taran only barely registered Sonten’s approach. Fearful for his nephew’s safety; the general needed the young man to end this duel. Watching closely, Sonten saw his chance. Raskin suddenly drove Taran backwards with a succession of powerful lunges and the general gave a warning cry. He flung up his hand and tossed the staff across the beaten earth, sending it skidding to his nephew’s feet.

Raskin snatched it up and as he did so, it flared blindingly, blue and green along its length. Still driving Taran with his sword, the younger man called on his power and swung the object round to bring its tip to bear on the Journeyman’s heaving chest. With a wide-eyed look of horror, totally shocked by this unforeseen attack, Taran only just managed to fling himself sideways to avoid the killing bolt which came spitting from the end of the rod. He heard it grind into the rocky earth behind him.

Fear goaded Taran and he leapt furiously towards his opponent, lunging into some broadsword strokes he had learned from a passing swordmaster some years before. Expecting the Journeyman to be shocked into inaction, Raskin was caught wrong-footed. One of Taran’s more vicious swings rang jarringly against his sword and the blade was sent spinning from his hand.

‘Yield!’ demanded Taran, panting heavily. But Raskin didn’t even falter and he ignored his numbed hand. Using the metaphysical powers contained within the staff, he attacked Taran with renewed ferocity. Huge bolts of Earth-energy shot crackling from the dreadful weapon. The exhausted Journeyman was forced to deflect them, stretching his own powers past their straining limits.

Terrified, Taran knew he only had one choice left. Heedlessly throwing all his remaining metaforce into one vast Earth-shift, causing the ground to buckle suddenly beneath his opponent’s feet, he rushed the unbalanced Andaryan. Ignoring the awful power of the staff, he brought his sword around in a powerful backhanded sweep which took the young man’s head clean off at the neck.

The body collapsed in a welter of blood; the deadly metal object falling quiescent at Taran’s feet. Still gripped by terror, he stood panting heavily, trembling with fatigue and leaning on his sword.

There was disbelieving silence from the dead man’s retinue.

Sonten was the first to recover and Taran heard him roar ‘Treachery!’ in a harsh and furious voice. The surrounding huntsmen threw off their horrified stasis and leapt into action. Baying ravenously for his blood, they converged on the exhausted Journeyman.

Trapped and facing certain death, Taran ignored the risk and did the only thing his beleaguered brain could think of. With a rasping cry he snatched up the fallen rod and channelled his own power through it. Frantically calling up his reserves, he threw a huge barrier of Earth-element against the rushing men. Using the alien artefact very nearly caused a fatal burn-out in his brain and the pain was excruciating. But the yelling huntsmen were flung back, momentarily stunned, and Taran used the respite to turn and flee.

He used a feeble Earth-ball to scatter their horses, even that small power causing him huge amounts of pain. Blinded and gasping with it, he ran as fast as his exhausted body would go towards the hills, hoping to shake his pursuers and find the Well.

For a while, he even thought he might succeed. He twisted and turned, racing through the maze of hills, trying to cover his tracks. Fear lent him speed but he knew it wouldn’t last. Cresting a rise, he risked a glance over his shoulder, his pounding heart lifted by the absence of pursuit. He fled down the far side of the hill.

His relief was short-lived. Inevitably, he heard pounding hoofbeats and knew that some of the hunters had regained control of their mounts. The Well was still some way off and he risked another backward glance. A desperate denial escaped his lips as he saw that the huntsmen had brought the two huge raptors with them. Their hoods had been removed and that could only mean one thing; they intended to fly them at him.

Gigantic hybrids, the feather- and-leather-winged were-eagles were indigenous to Andaryon and their ferocity was legendary. Without a bow, Taran stood little chance of protecting himself against them; they were swift and sure when stooping on prey of his size. As a Journeyman, Taran had Mastery over Earth and could influence Water; neither element would help him here. He could not afford the time to stand and use his sword or the huntsmen would be upon him. His breath sobbing through painful lungs, he fled once more.

Hearing a raucous cry he gasped in terror; one of the hideous creatures was free. Another glance behind him showed that the riders had slowed, evidently expecting the were-eagle to do their work for them. Despite his straits, Taran felt some satisfaction; his use of power had taught them respect at least.

Respect, however, would have no value in the talons of a were-eagle.

Cursing himself for a fool and for allowing himself to be trapped – how many times had he tried to drum caution into Ric’s head? – he risked an upward glance. Horror overtook him, turning his muscles to water. The awful spectre of a stooping were-eagle filled his vision.

Throwing himself to the ground he rolled wildly, feeling the bird’s talons rake his shoulder. Struggling to his feet, the downdraught from its powerful pinions nearly knocked him back down. It swooped away up the hillside, wings booming as it beat for height, and he took off in panic once more. He prayed that Ric was alert and ready for his summons.

Thoughts of his dark-skinned Apprentice galvanised Taran to a final effort. The Well could not be far away but his endurance was fading fast. His throat was raw, his chest tightening painfully as he pushed himself past his limits. His muscles were burning and losing their strength. He was gasping with fear and weakening rapidly but he could hear the rhythmic beat of giant wings behind him.

Trapped in his nightmare, he looked wildly around, desperate for signs that the Well was near. Suddenly, his vision cleared, showing him what he had prayed for; the opalescent shimmer of the substrate. Gathering his will, he sent a panicked command through the Veils to Ric, relief flooding in as he felt his Apprentice respond. The Well’s shimmer turned red as Ric drew down strength to open it. Taran sprinted towards it, only to be brought up short by a harsh scream from above.

Paralysed with horror, he looked up. He was staring directly into the mad, red eyes of the were-eagle; its scaled and sinewy neck twisting towards him, its wickedly sharp talons rushing towards his heart. He had nowhere to go and no room to dodge, but he couldn’t risk leaping into the Well and carrying the thing with him, even if it was the only way to survive the raptor’s strike.

In unthinking desperation, he raised the Andaryan weapon. Grabbing for Ricard’s strength he felt his Apprentice dutifully surrender what talent he possessed. Thus empowered, Taran took an almighty risk with both their lives and channelled their joint metaforce through the strange weapon. It glowed incandescent and bucked in his hands; he screamed with the pain of controlling such an alien thing. Forcing his will, his lungs still gulping the searing air, he directed its deadly aim at the were-eagle’s breast.

The plummeting monster lunged desperately away from the spray of deadly energy. But the raw power caught the leading edge of one vast, sail-like wing and charred the feathered membrane to a crisp. The creature gave a piercing shriek as it curled around itself and cartwheeled towards the ground. Taran did not wait to see it strike. Near to fainting with pain and exhaustion, he cast himself into the Well, blindly trusting Ricard to bring him safely through.

Chapter Three.

Sonten cursed viciously as Raskin’s huntsmen disappeared after their quarry. The furious general struggled up the nearest rise; the better to see the kill. Hoarsely roaring instructions the men couldn’t hear, Sonten saw the were-eagle’s attack. He watched in speechless fury as the Albian Artesan, Raskin’s intended victim, used the Duke’s priceless artefact and escaped the monstrous bird. It wasn’t until the dying shrieks had faded away that Sonten realised the irreplaceable staff had vanished as well.

This shock, coming on top of his nephew’s brutal murder, brought the fat general to his knees. Already tasting the wrath of the Duke, already feeling the sword twisting through his guts, he retched helplessly while the huntsmen rode slowly back.

However, he was on his feet and ready for them by the time they reached him. His face was an unpleasant shade of purple and his jowls quivered with rage. His blue-edged cloak swirled heavily around him as he strode up and down before them. They stood in silence, heads hanging. They were in very real peril of their lives and they knew it.

Sonten’s panting voice was tinged with panic as he harangued them.

‘You lost him, you useless rabble! How could you have let him get away? He’s murdered my nephew, the Albian bastard; he deserves to die! Not only that, but he’s taken that damned staff as well! What am I going to say to his Grace? How do I explain that one? Well? Does anyone have anything to say or have you all been struck dumb?’

Stricken they certainly were and none of them wished to speak, for the self-serving general was renowned for his swift, harsh discipline. Sonten glared in fury, his plans thrown to ruin. His shocked brain worked feverishly. He was going to be in deep and fatal trouble unless he could come up with a suitable story. In the meantime, his rage demanded a scapegoat.

‘Well?’ he roared.

The men flinched. ‘My Lord, he was too quick for us,’ stuttered their leader, knowing he was signing his death-warrant. ‘We couldn’t reach him in time, he was out of bowshot, and I thought the were-eagles were our best chance of stopping him. I never thought he would use the staff . . .’

‘You never thought?’ snarled the general. ‘That’s about right, Perik! Thinking never was your strong point, was it? Well, you’ve made your last mistake. This is a disaster and someone has to pay for it. Guess who that will be, Perik; any idea?’

He stared menacingly into the huntsman’s eyes. He knew he was being unfair; Perik had done his best. But the memory of the Albian’s incredible achievement pricked Sonten’s rage. It made his loss all the more frustrating for Raskin had needed many days of risky and sweaty experiment before he had been able to even influence the thing.

Sonten caught sight of his nephew’s body lying on the blood-soaked ground. All that risk and effort wasted, he seethed, all their plans thrown away! And now his own position – indeed his very life – was in extreme danger if his Grace the Duke ever discovered what had gone on behind his back.

That terrible thought suddenly surfaced in Sonten’s eyes. He trusted Raskin’s men and these had been picked for their loyalty, but if one of them should mention . . .

Panic overrode restraint and he whipped his sword from its sheath. Fat he undoubtedly was and not as skilled as some but Perik never saw Sonten’s steel punch through his ribs into his heart. He was dead even as his reproachful eyes fastened on the furious face of his lord. His dying gaze went unseen and his limp body was ignored as it slid from the bloody steel. Turning his back on the dead man, Sonten stared at the rest with dreadful intent.

‘Let that be a lesson to you all,’ he hissed. ‘If even one of you breathes so much as a word of this . . ! Well, I won’t tolerate fools and I won’t stand for failure. Do you hear me? Do you understand?’

They shuffled uneasily. The threat was unmistakable and there were murmurs of assent.

‘Now, you all know that my nephew’s murderer is an Albian. He’s trespassed on my lands once; he may do so again. You are all charged with watching for him; constantly, do you hear? I won’t stand for any slacking, no matter how exhausted you get. I want to know instantly of any Albians in my province and I want them detained – alive!

‘Galet, you are now leading huntsman. I suggest you think carefully about the fate of your predecessor and make damned sure you don’t suffer the same. Am I clear? Good. Now get this mess cleared up and follow me back to the mansion. I have to speak with Commander Heron before I return to his Grace, and on top of everything else, I now have a bloody damned funeral to arrange.’

Still swearing, Sonten clambered aboard his stocky mount, thumping his heels viciously into its sides. The beast flung up its head and grunted as it lumbered into a canter, bearing its angry rider back to his estate.

*          *          *

The harsh scream echoed loudly round the cellar. Ricard yelped; his head was already pounding with migraine and the sound tore right through his pain. But he didn’t have time to deal with it; his hands were full as it was.

‘Ruth!’ he yelled for the second time, ignoring the agony in his head. Thankfully, he could now hear her hurrying down the stairs and he panted with exertion as he watched the cellar door.

‘What is it, Ric, what’s wrong . . . oh, good gods!’

Ruth asked no more questions but rushed to Ric’s side, kneeling down and taking Taran’s unconscious body from him.

‘See to him will you, Ruth? I have to shut this thing down.’

Trusting her to tend his wounded master, Ricard pushed the anxiety out of his thumping head. He had to dismantle the Well. He knew the mechanics of it well enough but had never done it alone before. As he took hold of its substance and matched his fledgling matrix to it, he knew immediately that something was wrong.

It didn’t respond to his touch in the way he knew it should. It was resisting him, and he didn’t know why. His heart quailed and he nearly drew back, hoping Taran had recovered consciousness and could do it himself. A quick downward glance told Ric this was a vain hope. If anything, Taran seemed worse; he was beginning to moan and writhe.

Ric drew a deep breath. Perhaps he was being too subtle. Taran was always telling him his touch was too soft, too imprecise, so maybe a bit of brute force would do the trick. Ruth gasped. Out of the corner of his eye, Ric saw his friend and master in her arms; white-faced and groaning, in need of his help. Setting his jaw, Ric grasped the fabric of the Well and tore it. A brief shriek of metaforce jarred his sore head, but then the substrate shimmer vanished and the air in the cellar cleared.

Hiding his relief, Ric sank to the floor. Still unconscious, Taran was beginning to struggle against Ruth’s restraining arms.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Ric asked, looking over Taran’s many wounds. They were bleeding but none seemed serious enough to have caused this palsied state.

Ruth’s priorities, however, lay elsewhere. ‘Help me get him upstairs, Ric; I can’t do anything for him down here.’

Together, they just managed to lift Taran’s dead weight, Ric taking his shoulders and Ruth his feet. As his body came up, something metal rang on the stone and rolled into the depression in the floor. Ric stared down at it.

‘What in Perdition is that?’ he exclaimed, not liking the look of the thing that lay glittering at his feet.

‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ gasped Ruth. ‘Get up those stairs, Ric, before my strength gives out!’

Struggling up the narrow stairs they managed to carry Taran as far as his bed in the front room of the little cottage. The Journeyman’s body was jerking; he was radiating heat and his skin was sheened in sweat.

‘Get me some warm water and my medical bag,’ instructed Ruth.

Ric left to do her bidding and Ruth began removing Taran’s filthy, blood-stained clothes. Her trained healer’s eye could immediately see his wounds were not life-threatening and they were bleeding just enough to wash out any dirt. The convulsions, however, alarmed her; she could see no reason for them.

Ric returned and Ruth fumbled hurriedly through her bag. Emptying the contents of a herb-pouch into the water she used the infusion to sponge Taran’s body. He showed no signs of waking and his moans were growing louder; she stared at Ric in confusion.

What Ruth could not see was that Taran’s mind had been damaged by his use of the alien weapon. Overstretched and exhausted, it was fixed in a nightmare loop; throwing Taran time and time again back into the breathless horror of the duel. The pale, slit-pupilled eyes of the man he had killed bored once more into his soul, taunting him with his failures. Time and again Taran saw the noble’s sword slashing at his chest; time and again he tried to avoid that lethal thrust. His battered, sweating body reacted unconsciously and he lunged on the bed, startling Ruth into a cry. She could not hear the exasperated voice ringing repeatedly through Taran’s aching mind; memories of his father with his dismissive, mocking sneer:

Oh, well done, my son! Yet another failure; yet another reason to be proud.

She only saw the tears of self-blame squeezing beneath his lids, felt the tremor of his muscles as he shuddered in disgrace.

Another groan escaped him, causing Ric to glance fearfully at Ruth across the Journeyman’s body.

‘What’s happening?’ he hissed. ‘Why won’t he wake?’

Talented healer though she was, Ruth could only shake her head and watch as Taran’s body reacted to what his brain forced him to see. He thrashed suddenly, nearly casting himself to the floor. Ricard threw his arms across his master’s form, desperately trying to pin him to the bed.

‘Ruth, help me,’ he urged, as even his young strength failed to subdue the frantic movements. Taran’s violent lunging dislodged his hold and he grasped in panic at the wildly swinging arms. ‘Ruth,’ he cried again, ‘do something!’

Ruth was nowhere near as strong as her lover but in her capacity as a healer she had dealt with delirious patients before. Swiftly she gathered up the folds of the rumpled comforter and threw it over Taran’s writhing body. Together, she and Ric just managed to secure the frantically jerking arms within its clinging folds. They wrapped him firmly, kneeling on either side and securing the comforter tightly.

Another raw groan escaped the raving man’s throat. The sound, one of deep distress, caused Ric’s dark-skinned face to pale.

‘What’s happening to him, Ruth? Can’t you do something?’

The worried healer regarded her partner. ‘I don’t think this has a physical cause, Ric, and I only deal with the body, not the mind. Isn’t that your territory? Can’t you . . . get inside him somehow; see what he’s seeing?’

Ric shook his head in frustration. ‘I’m only an Apprentice, Ruth; I’m not that skilled. I can hear him if he speaks to me, but I can’t reach out to him. Oh gods, I feel so useless!’

The unconscious man, locked deep within his stasis, experienced again and again the humiliation of being so easily trapped. Each cut of his opponent’s sword, each desperate parry and riposte, replayed inside his mind. His body was helpless in the nightmare’s grip. His two friends watched with growing fear as perspiration broke out afresh. Still kneeling on the comforter, Ruth used the herb-infused water to cool his face but could do nothing to calm the thrashing or bring Taran out of the fit. She was worried about his wounds which were being aggravated by the jerking of his limbs, but there was nothing she could do about them right now.

Her anxiety only increased as Taran’s personal nightmare caused him to cry out in remembered terror. She watched helplessly as his breathing became ever more ragged and his skin turned a deathly shade of grey. She didn’t want to alarm Ricard more than he already was, but she was beginning to wonder how much more Taran could take. At twenty-eight he was still young and strong, but this relentless straining on top of what he had already suffered was making her fear for his heart.

However, the nightmare was rushing to a conclusion.

Taran’s jerking limbs echoed his flight for life; his harsh breathing spiraled towards a scream as his damaged brain replayed the were-eagle’s stoop. Once again he was holding the staff aloft; once again he gathered his power and commanded the weapon to respond. But the memory of such burning agony was too much for his mind to take and the shock flung his consciousness out of the loop. A scream tore from his throat, resounding about the small bedchamber, and Ric’s dark face turned stark white. Leaping to his feet, he stared wildly at Ruth as the tension suddenly dropped from Taran’s muscles. His body collapsed bonelessly between them.

‘What the . . ? Why has it stopped? Ruth, is he all right? He isn’t moving. Ruth!’

Ruth was unable to reassure him. ‘Hush, Ric, let me concentrate.’

Placing two fingers on the big vein in Taran’s neck; she found he was still breathing, although the breaths were shallow and rapid. Taking the cloth from the water she sponged his fevered body, hoping the pungent smell of herbs might revive him.

The silence was loud in the small room. They were fortunate indeed, thought Ruth, that none of their neighbours had heard Taran’s cries. He and his father had only ever been tolerated in Hyecombe because they kept their activities quiet; attracting the villagers’ attention now could have serious consequences.

Ric was still hovering by her side but Ruth thought she could detect a slowing of the racing heartbeat, a calming of the shattered breathing.

‘It’s all right, Ric,’ she soothed, trying to sound cool and professional. Taran’s condition had frightened her badly; she had never seen anything like it. ‘I think he’s coming out of it now.’

Gratefully, Ric allowed his pent-up breath to hiss through his teeth. He slumped to the bed, passing a hand across his aching brow, brushing lank brown hair from his eyes. His exertions had made him sweat almost as much as the Journeyman. He glanced anxiously at Taran’s pallid face as the man he thought of as his master and friend struggled slowly upwards from a nightmare which had only just begun.

Saner images began to displace the madness in Taran’s mind. A numbing heat pervaded his every sense, as if his body was scorched by fire. He tried to open his eyes and registered a momentary glimpse of the dark face above him. He felt coolness on his brow, soaking into the ache of his mind, and relief washed through him. He thought he heard the worried murmur of voices and if he concentrated hard enough, he could identify his Apprentice. That meant the other voice must belong to Ruth, and that meant he was safe. Gratefully, he allowed himself to sink back into oblivion.

The next time he woke, he felt stronger. His hazel eyes opened fully and he seemed to be in control of them. The room he saw was dimly lit but familiar. He was in his own house, on his own bed, and he could even feel that his wounds had been tended. Greatly daring, he raised his head and made out a figure seated in a chair at the foot of the bed. He tried his voice.

‘Ricard?’

It was more a croak than a call. He tried to moisten his lips with no success. But the young man had heard him anyway and was instantly by his side.

‘Taran? Oh, thank the gods; we thought we’d lost you. Do you want some water?’

Ever practical, Ric didn’t wait for an answer but slipped an arm beneath Taran’s shoulders and raised him up, just enough to sip at the cool water he held. It was steeped in herbs and Taran really hoped that some of them would dull the dreadful throb in his head. He drank gratefully and was laid gently back down. Ric strode to the door, put his head around it and called for Ruth.

She entered the room through a glimpse of firelight, her long dark hair falling about her shoulders. She wore a worried expression. Bending forwards, she placed a cool hand on Taran’s brow, smoothing back his hair.

‘Are you feeling better now?’ she asked. ‘We’ve been so frantic for you. What on earth happened?’

Taran felt weak, quite unequal to the task of explaining himself, but they deserved no less for their obvious care. He could not forget that they had both tried to dissuade him from his rash plan, and now the two of them had probably saved his life. That thought brought horrific memories flooding back and he turned his eyes to the ceiling, staring upwards as his face burned in shame.

‘Oh, gods, I’ve been such a fool,’ he groaned, his voice stronger for the liquid he had taken. He heard Ric snort and glanced at the dark-skinned man. He shook his head, his expression grim.

‘Just because I tell you not to be an arrant idiot doesn’t mean the vice never afflicts me,’ he said. ‘But this time, I’m afraid, it’s a little more serious.’ He paused before continuing reluctantly, ‘Ric, I killed someone.’

Ruth gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Ric’s dark eyes widened and he slumped to the bed in disbelief. He had been badly shaken by Taran’s delirium; this latest news was almost too much.

‘How the hell did that happen?’ he asked.

Ruth retreated to the chair at the foot of the bed, anxiously watching Taran. She was no Artesan and did not understand the power that Taran controlled and her lover aspired to. Her talents lay with the physical body and they were talents Taran had cause to be grateful for.