Early in the afternoon of the following day, they sighted Caer Duirga, across miles of rolling, mist-shrouded fells. It took hours to cross the treacherous vale, since dense thickets of briars and rank bogs barred their way. Although the day had started with the promise of clear weather, as they came closer to the hill the weather grew unseasonably cold, and a leaden overcast obscured the sun. By the time they reached the foot of the mount, Gaelin was wondering what had happened to spring.
Gaelin discovered a sense of brooding menace as they neared the place. The green, vibrant vegetation of the surrounding highlands seemed pale and sickly here, as if the sun didn’t shine with the same strength near the tor, and the air was unpleasantly clammy. Gaelin hadn’t been bothered by the cold rains of the past few days, not even when he was soaked to the skin, but he shuddered at the heavy dew collecting on the wool and leather garments he wore beneath his armor.
Caer Duirga rose several hundred feet higher than most of its neighbors. It was, in fact, a small mountain, crowned with a distinctive jumble of dark stone visible for miles. In local legend, the hill had once been a goblin fortress, in the years before mankind had come to Cerilia. A mighty warlock had held Caer Duirga and the lands around, the story went, until the day of Deismaar, where the goblin hosts perished in uncounted numbers. The few highlanders who lived nearby avoided the area, claiming it was haunted.
They camped in the shadow of the hill, surrounded by a dire sense of foreboding that was nearly tangible. Even the horses were nervous, prancing skittishly and pulling at their makeshift hobbles. No one argued when Gaelin suggested a double watch that night. After they ate a cold and tasteless dinner of hardtack and dried beef, Gaelin took Seriene a little ways away from the others. “Well?” he asked. “Have you found anything?”
The princess frowned. “I haven’t started to look. But I can sense something here. There’s power in this place, but it’s dark and twisted. This place draws mebhaighl, but it’s corrupted somehow.” She shivered. “What’s wrong with this place, Gaelin?”
He told her what little he knew of Caer Duirga’s history. A day ago, he would have scoffed at these stories as tales to frighten children. Now he was inclined to take them more seriously.
“I’ve been up and down these highlands for fifteen years or more, since I was a boy of nine or ten,” he finished.
“But for some reason, I never passed by Caer Duirga. I might not have been so quick to bring everyone here if I had.”
Seriene walked in a slow circle, surveying the hillside, and finally stopped and gazed up the dark flanks of the mountain, now shadowed with the deepening dusk. Its barren crest was easily three or four hundred feet above them, and she craned her head back to look at the peak. “Mebhaighl – the magic of the land – runs and collects like water, seeking the point where it belongs. We’ll find what we’re looking for up there. I’m certain of it.”
“You’re the authority. I’ll trust your judgment.” He paused, and added, “We only have three days before Bannier plans to meet me here. For that matter, he could be here now.”
“The powers of darkness are strongest at night, and this is a place where the powers of darkness are strong enough already.
I won’t challenge them until the sun’s in the sky again.” Seriene pulled her gaze away from the hilltop -
Gaelin noticed his own eyes had a tendency to wander that way, when he wasn’t paying attention – and sat down on a boulder, facing away from the hill. “Gaelin, what do you know about Bannier?” she asked.
He blinked. “Why, a fair amount, I guess. He was part of my father’s court for nearly as long as I remember. Fifteen years or more, I suppose. He’s intelligent and well-learned, but I’d expect that of a wizard.”
“Why did he serve your father?”
“The Mhor provided him with a stipend in exchange for his help – Bannier enjoyed both wealth and power as court wizard.”
Seriene smiled. “There are many forms of power, Gaelin.
I’m surprised a man like Bannier would have considered political influence to be worth his interest when real power, magical power, was his to command. Think, Gaelin – was there anything else Bannier did?”
Gaelin struggled to recall something useful. “I’ve heard Bannier was the only true mage in Mhoried. I recall the Mhor helped him to maintain his place by giving Bannier a free hand to discourage other wizards from settling in the kingdom.
Of course, there were dozens of magicians and illusionists who practiced lesser magic in the land, but Bannier was the only true mage.”
“Why would your father help him to keep other wizards away?”
“Back when my father was young, there were several wizards who competed for power in Mhoried. Bannier was one of these, and over the course of my father’s reign he defeated his rivals. Some of them were unsavory characters, so my father was glad to see them leave.” Gaelin laughed harshly.
“Until this year it seemed a wise policy.”
“So no other wizards draw upon Mhoried’s mebhaighl?”
“I wouldn’t know about that. But I do know Bannier is the only mage of any power in Mhoried and has been for many years.” He thought for a moment, and asked, “Would that be why he wanted no other wizards in Mhoried? So that he could control the land’s power, uncontested by any rivals?”
Seriene nodded. “It could very well be. What kind of spells did you see him cast?”
“He didn’t use his powers publicly, at least, not often. He knew what was happening all over Mhoried, and he could vanish and reappear hundreds of miles away in a matter of hours.”
Seriene frowned. “The halflings can do that by traversing the Shadow World. I wonder if Bannier has learned how to find his way through the Shadow?”
Gaelin blanched at her words. He’d heard of the Shadow World before – any one growing up heard the stories, of course – but Seriene’s earnestness terrified him. In legend, the Shadow World was a land that somehow paralleled Cerilia, existing alongside the daylight world. But it was a dark and dangerous realm, a land of spirits and ghosts, where things that couldn’t abide the sun lurked and preyed upon passersby.
Sometimes the Shadow was only a step away, the stories said, especially in places of great evil or suffering, and it was possible for someone with a bit of knowledge – or misfortune – to find a way into the realm of darkness. “Do you remember what Madislav said, as he was dying?” Gaelin replied. “He said that Bannier had imprisoned him in the Shadow World. He also said that Ilwyn was there.” He groaned in disappointment. “That could mean that we’re in the wrong place. Ilwyn could be anywhere!”
“Not necessarily, Gaelin. Look at this place – the Shadow World almost touches us. The walls between the worlds are thin here. If Bannier has learned to make use of the Shadow World, this is a place that would attract his interest.” Seriene looked away from the hilltop. “Is there anything else you can think of?”
“I studied under him for a time. He taught me a few cantrips, the barest start of the magician’s art, but he seemed to think I showed promise.” Gaelin shrugged. “He was a good advisor to my father for many years. I wonder what made him turn against House Mhoried.”
“It doesn’t matter now. It’s enough to know that he’s your enemy.” Seriene glanced back toward the campfire and stood up, brushing off the seat of her riding pants. “I should get some sleep, so I can study my spells in the morning. I’ll need them all soon, I think.” She threw Gaelin a sly look. “And besides, Erin might get jealous.”
“Erin?”
“It’s obvious, Gaelin. The way you’ve been looking at each other all day…” Her eyes flashed and her voice took on a sharp edge. “You know you can’t stay with her forever. She’s beneath your station.” Then she turned and went back to the camp. Gaelin looked after her, struggling with his feelings.
He glanced at the sky, seeking light, but the brooding menace of Caer Duirga returned all too quickly. As darkness fell, he went back to the camp.
That night, while the others slept, Erin came to him and silently led him away from the camp. There, out of sight and earshot, they made love again, fighting off the cold and the fear of the night. Before dawn, they rose and crept back into camp, masked by a simple illusion Erin wove softly under her breath. As they parted to return to their own sleeping rolls, Gaelin cupped her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly.
She shivered in his arms, and slipped away.
In the morning, Gaelin rose and donned his half-plate armor over a rust-stained aketon and a set of sturdy leather leggings. He left off his greaves and brassards, to save weight; he still wore forty pounds of iron, but he wouldn’t part with any more of his armor, even in the face of the morning’s climb. At one point, he glanced up and caught Erin watching him, while she tugged on her own long boots. He found himself remembering their encounter just a few short hours ago, and the mischievousness in her glance told him that she was remembering as well. He turned back to the business of dressing and arming himself, smiling until he glanced up and saw Seriene watching him. She closed her eyes and turned away, throwing herself into an intense examination of her spellbooks.
After everyone was dressed and armed, Gaelin set two guards to watch over the camp. The rest of the group started up the steep, slippery hillside in single file. Bull led the way; he was a skilled outdoorsman, and probably the best climber of them all. He chose a sideways path that curved around the slope of the mount, allowing them to more or less walk upright, although in several places they had to scramble on all fours. Seriene followed Bull, a distant expression on her face, as if she listened for a sound no one else could hear. Gaelin helped her along, while Erin, Boeric, and the remaining guardsmen brought up the rear.
The hillside was not a very difficult climb, but it was an arduous hike. By daylight, Gaelin could see more of Caer Duirga. It wasn’t a natural hill, or at least, it didn’t look like it belonged among the knife-edged ridges that surrounded it.
Caer Duirga was a mass of jagged stone that burst out of the surrounding hills, a titanic black claw emerging from a hidden grave. Tall pillars the size of castle turrets leaned drunkenly away from the main massif, hiding dark glens and chimneys in their shadows. In the lower reaches, impenetrable briars and stands of black, twisted trees made the going nearly impossible. Here and there, Gaelin thought he could make out the ruins of ancient walls, now fields of wreckage hard to distinguish from the mass of the hill itself.
Within an hour, they climbed two hundred feet while zigzagging two miles across the hillside. Despite the clammy mists that surrounded them, Gaelin was sweating profusely.
The view would have been impressive, if the day were clearer – but Gaelin suspected that there weren’t many sunny days around Caer Duirga.
After two hours’ difficult work, they neared the hill’s summit.
The hill grew steeper as it rose, and the relatively easy going of the lower slopes was now becoming a dangerous and time-consuming chore. Bull selected their path a few yards at a time, and they spent more time picking their way up with hands and feet. Gaelin could swear the hillside deliberately obstructed their way, as solid-looking handholds crumbled away in his grasp or his foot slipped suddenly on what seemed to be dry, sturdy stone. One of the guardsmen lost his grip, and a nasty slide deposited him fifty feet down the slope.
Three hours after they left camp, they found themselves standing on the black, crumbling rock of Caer Duirga’s crest.
The air was cold and clear, almost unnaturally so, as if the hill was crowned in dark ice. Gaelin’s legs quivered in exhaustion, and his hands ached from a variety of small cuts and strains. Few of the others were in any better shape, and for a good twenty minutes they simply dropped onto boulders or flat spaces and caught their breath, shivering with the cold.
The guards’ jests and gibes fell flat in the desolate air of the place, and they soon lapsed into silence.
Seriene stood and began to examine the area, circling around their impromptu campsite. The hill crest itself was easily three hundred feet in width, and ran for half a mile to the east before descending into a rough jumble of broken rock and wiry thickets. The land was surprisingly level, and Gaelin found himself imagining that the rocky spires rising from the top of the hill were indeed an ancient keep, ossified or engulfed by the hill long ago. Seriene moved off slowly, examining the rocks while she muttered to herself and made strange passes with her hands. With a groan, Gaelin stood and followed her; he wasn’t about to let anyone wander out of sight.
For the next hour, Seriene carefully circled the whole hilltop, leaving no inch of ground uncovered. At length, she returned to the place where they had first scrambled up, her face tight with concern. “There’s no doubt that this place conceals a powerful source of dark mebhaighl,” she reported, grimacing.
“I can well believe there was an ancient power that laired here. It stained the place with evil. Can any of you sense it?”
Erin nodded silently. Gaelin agreed. “The whole place gives me the shivers,” he admitted. “I can feel it watching us.”
Seriene nodded at the dark fissures that ran back mazelike into the hill’s heart. “You feel the mebhaighl,” she said. “Bannier’s source of power is very close.”
“What? Is it here?”
“Almost, but not quite. It actually lies within the Shadow World, but this is the place that corresponds to its location on the other side.”
“Could Bannier harness such a thing?” he asked.
Seriene nodded gravely. “There are powers in the darkness, powers with which a wizard of skill and strength can ally himself.”
Erin joined the conversation. “It would explain much, Gaelin. Think of the enchantment we saw Bannier weave just a few days ago to destroy your army at Marnevale.”
“What can we do about this? Is there any way to sever his connection with the Shadow?” Gaelin asked.
“Not from here, no,” Seriene replied. “But within the Shadow, things may be different.”
“You can’t mean to go there!” Gaelin cried.
Seriene’s eyes glittered. “It’s only a step away, Gaelin. Anywhere you go, it’s right there. Behind the mirror, in the shadow of a tomb, we’re never far from the twilight world.
It’s dangerous, yes, but I’ve been there before.”
Erin nodded. “It’s said that the last emperor, Michael Roele, led his army through the Shadow a number of times in order to confound his enemies.” She looked at the overcast skies and the bleak stones of the hillside. “Although I doubt he sought out places like this when he passed the door of night.”
“Well, Gaelin?” Seriene watched him, allowing him no respite. “Ilwyn may be imprisoned only a few dozen yards from where we stand.”
He shuddered. “Very well, although I don’t like it.”
The princess said, “Gather everyone near. I will open a doorway – it shouldn’t be hard, not here – and we will go inside.
I’ll be first, and then everyone else will follow, one at a time.”
“Can we get back, once we go over?” said Erin.
Seriene raised her hands. “Unless there’s something on the other side to preclude it,” she replied. “Would you feel better if I scouted it out first?”
Gaelin stepped in. “No, we won’t divide ourselves. If there’s trouble, I don’t want Seriene to face it alone.” He called Boeric, Bull, and the other guards over, and explained the situation to them. Not surprisingly, the men were not pleased by the prospect, but they did an admirable job of restraining their protests.
“Time to own up to my word,” Bull observed with a nervous laugh. “When I signed up I swore I’d follow the Mhor anywhere, and I guess he’s decided to take me up on it.”
Seriene stepped a little way from the soldiers, stopping in front of a black crevice in the rock. Facing the dark opening, she began to chant softly under her breath, her hands crooked into strange gestures. Gaelin wondered just how powerful a sorceress she was; it certainly seemed that this was no casual enchantment she wove. In a moment, the shadows between the stones suddenly grew darker and more tangible, seeming to writhe and flutter of their own volition as the princess finished her spell. Over her shoulder, she said, “Follow me, and stay close. You don’t want to get lost on the other side.” Then she stepped into the darkness and was gone, as if the gloom had swallowed her alive.
Gaelin hesitated. For a moment he wrestled with his fear, but then he realized that Seriene was waiting, alone on the other side. Steeling himself, he stepped forward quickly and followed, letting the darkness embrace him.
Within two days of setting the siege, the Ghoeran artillerists had small engines ready for firing, and the great trebuchets were rising at a slow but steady pace.
Of course, the heaviest of boulders did little to earthen ramparts, such as those the Mhoriens had raised to bolster their defenses. Tuorel had already attempted one impetuous assault in the dark of night. The Mhoriens had repelled the attack after an hour of hard fighting. The baron’s temper showed signs of fraying already; he muttered to himself and paced anxiously as he waited for Bannier to complete his work. Beside him, Baehemon stood, as immobile as a mountain, his thick arms folded across his chest.
Bannier supervised a team of artillerists as they readied a catapult at his direction. In the catapult’s sling lay a small cask, about twice the size of a man’s head. He examined its seals and the runes carved upon its exterior. He’d spent the better part of a day preparing the vessel, and another day filling it with a potent incendiary. Unlike the spells he used at Marnevale or Shieldhaven, this particular enchantment required nothing more than a knowledge of the magical arts; he had no need to harness the land’s mebhaighl in order to power the spell.
“By all appearances, you intend to fling brandy casks at the Mhoriens in the hope of getting them drunk,” drawled Baehemon.
“What agent is so noxious that a single blow from a tiny cask will bring the Mhoriens’ defenses crumbling to the ground?”
Bannier ignored the commander’s scorn. “Be patient. And I didn’t promise ‘a single blow,’ Baehemon. You may need to throw several of these for the desired results.”
“So? What is it?” Tuorel turned, locking his eyes on Bannier.
“You have heard of the hell-powder used by Khinasi wizards?”
“Aye. It causes a great burst of flame and smoke, shattering anything near. But I’ve heard that you need a great hogshead of the stuff to damage a castle or knock down a gate.”
Bannier smiled. “Those fools just don’t know how to mix it properly.” He traced one last set of designs on the cask. “This is a perfect mixture, much more potent than the Khinasi dirt.
And its power is augmented many times by the spells I’ve laid upon the vessel. The results should be spectacular.”
Baehemon waved one hand at the Mhorien lines. “I still see no gates to breach with your hell-powder, wizard.”
With a shrug, Bannier completed his last enchantments and stood back. He nodded at the captain in charge of the catapult, who set a couple of burly soldiers to the task of winching the arm back into its firing position. The wheel clanked and g roaned against the strain of the powerful torsion. “I believe this mixture may be capable of leveling the ramparts, anyway, ” he observed. “Baron Tuorel, with your permission?”
Tuorel grinned in anticipation. “By all means, proceed.”
Bannier nodded to the captain. The fellow leaned forward and knocked the restraining arm free with a single skillful blow of a small sledge. The machine bucked, and the arm slammed into its forward rest with a muffled thump! His eye caught the tiny shape of the cask hurtling through the air, tumbling headlong as it curved through the sky in a high, lazy arc. “Watch where it hits,” he said, quite unnecessarily.
The cask began to descend toward the low earthen battlements, quickly vanishing against the background of dark hills.
Then a colossal explosion in the center of the line threw a column of dirt a hundred feet or more into the air, with a mighty roar that slapped at their faces even from several hundred yards away. Stones and timbers rained down around the Mhoried lines. The captain standing next to Bannier shucked his helmet and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. “By Cuiraecen’s hammer!”
They waited for the smoke and dust to dissipate enough to survey the damage. A light drizzle helped settle the plume, and within a few minutes they could see that a ten-yard section of the earthworks was simply gone, blown to nothing.
Even as the ringing echoes of the blast died, they could hear the cries of consternation drifting from the Mhorien lines. “A well-aimed shot, Captain,” said Bannier. “You struck the rampart dead-on.”
“Thank you, my lord. It was tricky, with such a light projectile.”
The officer signaled to his men, who started the tedious process of realigning the siege engine. Two more artillerists brought up another of Bannier’s casks, handling it with more care than they had shown a few minutes ago.
Tuorel leaped up on top of the earthworks, to gain a better view. He smacked one fist into the other. “Excellent, Bannier!
Afew more missiles like that, and their rampart will be completely untenable! We will prepare for another assault at sundown!”
Bannier bowed. “I shall leave this work in the hands of your capable artillerists, my lord baron. There is a sufficient supply of missiles to sustain the bombardment for a day or so.”
“You’re not staying to watch?”
“I am afraid I have an engagement elsewhere,” Bannier said. He bowed again, shouldered his satchel, and turned to go.
“Bannier, wait a moment,” Tuorel said. He joined the wizard and paced beside him. “Are you finished with Ilwyn?”
“Ilwyn? She is mine, by the terms of our agreement.”
“I know, I don’t dispute that. I ask because Count Dhalsiel of Mhoried has asked me about her.”
“Surely you couldn’t care less what Cuille Dhalsiel thinks?”
Tuorel looked out over the battlefield. “You may recall that I secured his neutrality with a false promise. If he realizes that I lied to him, he hasn’t dared to speak his mind. He knows his place now.”
“So, what did you tell him?”
“I told him that she was your captive, and I had nothing to do with her fate.” Tuorel returned his attention to Bannier.
“He has guessed that the Mhoried bloodline is your prize, but he wanted me to ask you to consider stripping her of the bloodline through divestiture, instead of killing her outright.”
Bannier smiled. “I’m afraid the decision is out of my hands. If the young count asks you about her again, tell him that Princess Ilwyn died attempting to escape.”
Tuorel nodded. “Very well.” He watched Bannier vanish among the tents and fires of the Ghoeran camp. A moment later, the catapult thrummed as another deadly bomb was hurled at the Mhorien lines.
The cold drew Gaelin’s breath away as he stumbled through the door into darkness. All around him were shadows and a bone-numbing chill, but then Seriene’s hand caught his arm, and she moved him away from the door.
“Stand aside, Gaelin. The others will be following.”
He noticed that her voice had a curious ringing quality, as if the very properties of sound were altered by the bitter air.
He let her guide him a few steps away, and stood there blinking as he tried to get his bearings. Surprisingly, it wasn’t completely dark. In fact, his eyes were rapidly adjusting to a deep gloom, similar to a winter night an hour or so after the sun goes down. The sky was clear and dark, but instead of the warm and friendly stars that should have been there, only a handful of dim and hateful lights flickered weakly in the heavens.
Gaelin turned slowly, peering into the shadows that surrounded them and gasped in astonishment. They hadn’t gone anywhere! Everything was just as he had left it – the rise and fall of the land, the black towers of stone, even the bleak and twisted vegetation. The only thing that had changed was the preternatural darkness that lay over the landscape, and the gnawing cold. He could still see for several miles, taking in the surrounding hills and fields, but it was like looking at the world through smoked glass, and it hurt his eyes to peer too far.
Seriene, too, had changed subtly. She was limned by a strange blur, a soft and otherworldly radiance, while her fair complexion seemed paler and more brittle than bone.
Alarmed, he examined his hands and torso, and found that he, too, was as insubstantial as the sorceress. But instead of the shimmering glow that surrounded Seriene, he seemed to blaze with a vital green fire, an aura that mantled him like a king’s robe. The last time he had seen this manifestation of his bloodline was when he had inherited the regency of Mhoried, on the banks of the Stonebyrn.
There was a ripple of dim light in the air, and Erin stepped through. She was disoriented for a moment, until Seriene directed her to one side. “Help those who follow, Gaelin,” Seriene instructed. “Keeping this doorway open takes most of my concentration.”
Gaelin grasped Erin’s hand and drew her away from the door. The minstrel’s eyes glimmered with a strange violet light – her Sidhelien blood, Gaelin guessed – and she oriented herself much faster than Gaelin. Erin appeared as unnaturally pale as Seriene and himself, but her nimbus was not as strong as either of their own. A shudder racked her frame, and she gasped for breath. “So – cold,” she breathed. “Gaelin, you’re shining. You’re more real here than I am.”
“It must be my bloodline,” he said. “Are you all right?”
Erin leaned into his body, seeking warmth. “So this is the Shadow World,” she said. Her voice, too, had that strange clarity. “I don’t like it.”
“This isn’t a place for us, that’s for certain,” Gaelin agreed.
In short order, the rest of their party followed. Gaelin noticed that Bull, Boeric, and the other guardsmen had only the weakest of auras. When the last of the men stepped through, Seriene dropped her arms, her shoulders sagging, and Gaelin realized that her aura had dimmed noticeably since he had first come through – her exhaustion was tangible and visible here. She rallied and motioned for everyone’s attention.
“Welcome to the Shadow World,” she said with a weak smile. “This is an extremely dangerous place. Don’t wander off by yourself. If you do, I will never find you. Perspective and distance are tricky here, and your sense of time can play tricks on you. Keep track of where you are, where your companions are, and most importantly, where I am. I can’t shepherd you around and do what I need to do here.
“Do not get curious. Don’t look behind boulders or trees.
There are creatures here that can end your life in the blink of an eye, so don’t go looking for them.
“Finally, stay awake and stay alert. There are powers in the darkness that can enter your mind when your defenses are lowered. You may find strange ideas and urges coming into your head. Don’t listen to them!” Seriene paused. “Any questions?”
A few guards shuffled their feet or glanced at each other nervously. Gaelin squeezed Erin’s hand and was sur- prised to find her trembling in cold or fear. Seriene nodded.
“Very well. Follow me, and stay close.”
They set off, winding back toward the center of the hill. It was a march of only a couple of hundred yards on the other side, but here it seemed to take much longer. As they moved on through the darkness, Gaelin became aware of a watchfulness about Caer Duirga that was much more immediate and malevolent than the simple uneasiness he’d felt about the place in the daylight world. He caught up to Seriene. “Where are we going?”
“Bannier’s source,” she answered. “Can’t you feel it?”
“I feel something wrong here, but… wait, I do feel it. It’s stronger up ahead, isn’t it?”
Seriene nodded. “If you were a mage, you would be able to see what I see now. It’s unmistakable.” Glancing at Gaelin, she halted and took his hand. “Actually, you may be able to see it anyway. Close your eyes a moment, and then look again.”
Gaelin did so. When he looked again, he saw a thin purple column of energy rising from behind the hillocks just ahead, arrowing into the sky. A few hundred feet overhead, the column suddenly divided into a dozen razor-thin lines of lambent fire that arched away into the darkness. “Haelyn’s shield! What is it?”
“You’re seeing the raw stuff of magic, mebhaighl caught and corrupted here by Bannier’s sorcery. The smaller ones are ley lines, running away from here to other places where Bannier desires to tap this power.” Seriene pointed at the low, dark rocks that blocked their view of the foot of the column. “His source must be just over that rise.” Cold vapors formed from her words. She released his hand, and to Gaelin’s eyes the crackling, thrumming energy slowly faded from view – but now that he knew where to look, he could still feel it on his face, just as a blind man can feel the heat of a fire without seeing its light.
They continued forward, climbing up the last hillside, a shelf of rock that crowned Caer Duirga like a turret on top of a castle. At its crest, they found themselves looking down into a small hollow, a bowl-shaped space in the mountain’s center.
There, a great ring of ancient standing stones leaned drunkenly around a black slab or altar. On the far side was a gloomy mass of trees. Gaelin was certain no such place existed on the other side – the stones and the altar must have waited here in the Shadow for ages. He started to say something to Seriene, but then his eyes caught a pale wisp of white trapped in the menacing darkness. “Ilwyn!”
He drew his sword and started forward at once, but Seriene quickly caught him. “No, Gaelin!”
“But that’s Ilwyn!”
“It may be Ilwyn, Gaelin. Remember, things aren’t always as they seem here. And Bannier has not left her unguarded.”
Gaelin halted, frowning. “I don’t see anything.”
“You don’t, but I do,” Seriene replied. “We must be very careful how we approach this place; Bannier has woven traps all around this vale, and I can only guess he may have some here that even I can’t see.”
He growled in frustration, lowering the blade. “But we’re so close! Are we going to wait until Bannier himself appears to show us the way in?”
“Of course not!” snapped Seriene. “But we can’t rush headlong into that place. Give me time to examine the spells he’s created around the stones. I’ll find a way to pass them.”
Erin moved up beside Gaelin and put her hand on his shoulder. “Be patient, Gaelin. Seriene knows what she’s doing. A delay of an hour or two doesn’t hurt us.”
Gaelin slammed his sword back into its sheath at his hip.
Ilwyn was only about thirty yards away. She seemed more dead than alive, lying limply on the stone as if she were about to be entombed. “Fine,” he said. “But the sooner we get her and leave, the better.”
Seriene frowned, and paced forward to survey Bannier’s defenses. “I’ll work as quickly as I can,” she promised.
“Gaelin, make sure everyone stays near, and don’t let anyone nod off. Erin, stay with me. I may need your help.”
“Of course.” The minstrel moved forward to confer quietly with the princess. Gaelin snorted impatiently and set about dividing the guards into two-man teams and posting them as watches nearby. It looked as if they would be there for a while.