Daddy, wake up!”
Jair Rothlandorn groaned and tried to roll over.
“Wake up, Daddy!” The voice was persistent, close to his ear. Jair opened his eyes. A small face framed in dark, ringlet curls stared back at him only inches away. His son, Kenver, had the same amber eyes as his mother and the Sworn. His golden skin was a lighter cast, somewhere in between Talwyn’s tawny hue and Jair’s pale complexion, although by the end of the Ride, Jair would be nearly as dark as Talwyn. Kenver’s face was a mixture of Jair’s and Talwyn’s features, and right now, Kenver’s expression was pure joy.
“Mommy, Mommy. Daddy woke up!”
Jair took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around the boy, gathering Kenver’s small frame against him. He breathed in the scent of his hair, hair that smelled of sun and horse and wood smoke. At three years old, Kenver had no thought for his heritage, that he was by birth an heir to the throne of Dhasson, and by blood an heir to the magic of his mother and the chieftainship of the Sworn. Ignoring the pain of his freshly healed wounds, Jair tightened his grip and wiggled his fingers, tickling Kenver under his arm. The boy shrieked with delighted giggles.
“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” Talwyn stood in the doorway. Jair kissed the top of Kenver’s head and released the boy, who scampered off. Jair held out his hand to Talwyn and drew her to the side of the bed. He sat up and winced.
“Much better, considering the last thing I remember feeling was mostly dead.” He put his arm around his wife and pulled her toward him, into a kiss that let her know just how much he had missed her these past six months.
Talwyn’s amber eyes sparkled as she drew away. Her hair was dark and straight like the rest of her people’s, and it framed a rectangular face that was strikingly beautiful but not at all the delicate prettiness favored in the Dhasson court. Talwyn’s arms were strong as they wrapped around him, lean and toned from long days of riding and from training with the long, heavy stelian swords. Around her neck hung a variety of charms with polished rock, bits of metal, and bone on a thin cord woven from hair and leather. The charms spoke of Talwyn’s status as cheira, or shaman, and of her duty as next in line to be chieftain of the Sworn. One of the charms was from Jair, a betrothal token given years ago, the mark of the Lady set in a silver circle.
“You heal quickly,” Talwyn murmured, clasping Jair’s hand. The stylized tattoo of dark ink that circled one side of his wrist completed the circle around hers, matching perfectly. Each mated couple among the Sworn had a unique marking, one that was made up of elements signifying both families’ heritage. Kenver had a matching tattoo that circled his right bicep, marking him as their child.
“With help.” Jair gingerly fingered the newly healed skin on his arm where the dimonn had raked him with its claws. The cuts were almost completely healed, leaving thin, dark scars, a permanent reminder of his battle. His fever was completely gone, assuring him that the dimonn ’s poison had been cleansed from his system. “Thank you.”
Talwyn’s expression grew serious. “That was too close. We almost didn’t make it in time.”
“What about Emil and Mihei?”
“Emil is healing, but we nearly lost him. It will be awhile before he is ready to fight again. Mihei is badly drained, but rest will cure that. Now you know why I sent them to ride with you. The roads have been more dangerous of late.”
“I noticed.” Jair looked around himself. He was in one of the tents the Sworn called home. It was a round structure with wooden poles covered with sturdy canvas. Its roof was fanlike, also made from wood and canvas. It unfolded to form a circular, sloping top that was secured to the base with leather straps. Jair knew from experience that the entire tent could be struck or set in little more than a candlemark. Within the tent, colorful cloths hung from floor to ceiling, separating the sleeping chamber from the sitting and dining area. Jair closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The canvas smelled of the spices typical of the nomadic group’s cooking, and of Talwyn’s incense, and of fresh meadow grass. Despite the battle of the day before, something within Jair relaxed. Here, more than any other place, he was at home.
“How did I get here?” Jair looked chagrined. “I guess I passed out when we got to the inn.”
Talwyn suppressed a smile. “You made it up the stairs,” she offered helpfully. “After that, the healers took care of you and Emil and Mihei, and then gave you something so you’d sleep and heal. The next morning, we loaded you into a wagon and brought you to the camp. If you feel groggy, it’s because the elixir has just worn off.”
“How long did I sleep?”
“A full day.”
Talwyn took his hand and drew him over to plates of food on a low table in the center of the public area of the tent. The inner walls of the tent were marked with runes and symbols. Some told the history of the Sworn. Others gave the narrative of Talwyn’s family, a long and proud lineage among the nomadic warriors. And some of the runes were for protection, invoked by Talwyn when she worked her shamanic magic.
“We must be fairly close to towns,” Jair guessed as he filled a large piece of thin bread with roasted vegetables and meat flavored with the piquant spices the Sworn preferred. “It’s goat meat instead of rabbit.”
Talwyn settled beside him, crossing her legs under her. Kenver scrambled over to sit between them and filled his own slice of bread nearly larger than his mouth. “We’re still a good distance from any settlement, but this year, there are more goats roaming free,” Talwyn said. “Their owners died of the plague and the goats broke out of their pastures. The same is true for sheep and there are hogs rooting through the forest. Good for eating, bad for Margolan in general.”
“What of the barrows?” Jair asked. He finished his food quickly. Not for the first time, he wondered what accident of birth had placed him in the glittering Dhasson palace when his heart and soul seemed at home with the nomadic Sworn.
“Several of the ones we’ve visited recently have been desecrated,” Talwyn said. She handed Jair a leather wineskin. “Some more than others. At one or two, we’ve found markings and some shallow digging, as if someone were trying to work magic for which they didn’t have the power. We’ve been able to put those right fairly easily. But the last one-”
“What happened?” Jair laid the wineskin aside and drew Kenver onto his lap, reveling in the closeness of his family after the half-year absence his court duties had forced upon him.
“Someone at the nearest barrow had a better idea of what they were doing,” Talwyn said darkly. She glanced to Kenver, a signal for Jair that the boy shouldn’t hear what would be said next.
“Have you gotten any better with your bolas?” Jair asked Kenver.
The boy beamed at him. “Lots better. Want to see?”
Jair grinned. “Of course I do. Let me finish talking with your mother and then I’ll be out. Go ahead and practice.” Delighted, Kenver ran from the tent.
Talwyn watched to make certain the boy had gone. She lowered her voice, just a bit. “The barrow we’ve camped near has been vandalized by someone doing blood magic. They did enough damage that the spells binding the tomb have been weakened. Tonight, I need to walk the smoke to gain wisdom on how best to reseal the barrow. Tomorrow night, I’ll do the working.” She looked up at Jair. “I’d like you with me, both nights.”
Jair nodded solemnly. “You know I’ll be there.” He thought for a moment. “Do you think the disturbers of the barrows are organized? Father doesn’t hold much with meddling in the ways of the vayash moru , but ever since I went back to Margolan for Tris’s wedding, I’ve seen how important it is to rule both the living and the undead. Tris connected me with the vayash moru leaders in Dhasson, and through them, I’ve heard that with the plague, some people are turning back to the old ways, to human sacrifice and blood magic to appease Shanthadura and the Shrouded Ones. Do you think that could be behind the barrow desecrations?”
Talwyn shivered although the day was warm. “The Sworn remembers the cult of the Shrouded Ones. Those were very dark days. It’s been hundreds of years since anyone has worked their rites-at least, that we’ve heard about. But the smokewalkers will know. I’ll ask.”
Late that night, after the Sworn had gathered for dinner to greet Jair and welcome him back to the Ride, Jair and Talwyn headed toward the ceremonial tent. They were joined by Pevre, who was Talwyn’s father and the Sworn’s chieftain. Pevre was a large, strongly built man. He was esteemed among his people for both his leadership and his ability with a sword, but now, as Jair and Talwyn entered into the ritual tent, it was Pevre’s mystical connection to past generations of the Sworn that was foremost in Jair’s mind.
The chamber had been prepared. As they entered, one of the Sworn warriors handed a cup filled with a clear blue elixir to each of them, then stepped outside to guard the entrance. Jair took a deep breath and swallowed the elixir. It seemed to sharpen his senses immediately, even as it gave him the feeling that he was floating within his own body, untethered to the physical world. Three pillows sat next to a small brazier in the center of the tent, and in front of it, a series of small cups filled with sacred herbs that would help open the passage to the spirit world.
The ceremonial tent was large enough to hold all of the adults in the Sworn. The walls of the tent were painted in more pictures and runes. Bells hung from a central support, and on the other side of the tent, bits of colored glass, polished stone, and reflective metal glittered in the firelight where they were suspended as a warding against evil. Along the back wall, a small altar acknowledged the ancestors, whom the Sworn believed continued the Ride for eternity, aiding from beyond the mortal world in maintaining their watch over the barrows and the Dread who dwelt within them.
“Are you ready?” Talwyn’s voice was level. Jair nodded, although he had no idea what tonight’s ritual entailed.
Pevre began to chant. The language of the Sworn was heavy with consonants, a language that almost seemed more growled than spoken. It was far different from the languages of the seven kingdoms, or from Common, the language spoken by traders. Some said the Sworn’s language was older, while other tales said it took its origins far south, beyond the Winter Kingdoms, from peoples now long gone. It had taken Jair years to master it, but now he followed the chant in what had become his second native tongue.
“Spirits of those who have gone before, come to the gathering. Walk with us on the paths of smoke. Let us see with your eyes, and counsel us with your wisdom. We are the people of the Ride. We are the guardians of the barrows. We are the watchers of the Dread. We are the protectors. We are the Sworn.” Pevre raised a ceremonial knife and sliced a gash in his forearm. He held his arm over the brazier so that drops of the fresh blood fell into the coals, hissing. Pevre took herbs from the first of the cups next to the fire and dropped it onto the fire. Pungent smoke rose, filling the tent with the smell of absinthe.
Pevre passed the obsidian-bladed knife to Talwyn. Talwyn rose onto her knees and spread her arms wide. Her head fell back, exposing her throat and chest to the cloud of smoke. She raised her head and brought her hands in, palms up, as she looked toward the opening in the tent roof through which the smoke slowly spiraled.
“Travelers who have made the journey, walk with me, fathers of my father, mothers of my mother, bone of my bone, I call you. I want to walk the paths of smoke with you tonight. Accept me into your company.” Talwyn raised the flat of the knife to her lips and kissed it, and then drew the point down the palm of her left hand. She let drops of the blood hiss on the brazier coals, and then added herbs from the second cup to the fire. This time, the smoke rose with the scent of cinnamon, mingled with holly and dandelion.
The knife passed to Jair. He had none of Talwyn’s shamanic gifts, nor Pevre’s second sight. But the blood of kings flowed in his veins, a powerful and ancient magic. Bound to Talwyn by oath, sex, and magic, Jair’s presence was essential for the working of the night’s ritual. As Talwyn had taught him, Jair focused his attention on the ancestral altar.
“Warriors of the Sworn, aid your people. Seers of my tribe, bring us your visions. Souls of our honored dead, we bid you welcome.” Jair slashed the blade down his left thumb, opening a cut that bled freely into the coals. With his other hand, Jair dropped another handful of the ritual herbs into the fire. Smoke rose that smelled of sweetgrass and anise.
The smoke grew thicker, dense with the smell of blood and herbs. It hung in a heavy layer within the tent and as Jair watched, the haze began to move. Jair thought he glimpsed barely formed images in the smoke, faces or forms almost perceived and then gone. Along the wall, the bells chimed.
The elixir made Jair feel light within his body. The smoke beckoned his spirit to walk the ghostly pathways that stretched out before them. Jair took another deep breath and felt a shift, as if a part of him had left his body behind. Embraced by the smoke, Jair could see Talwyn and Pevre standing next to him, not in physical form but as if they, like he, were made of the smoke itself.
Figures stepped out of the cloud of smoke that filled the tent. Two of the men were dressed like chiefs of the past. They moved to stand one on each side of Pevre, and they walked with him into the smoke, where he disappeared from Jair’s view. A man and a woman came for Talwyn. They both wore the robes of a tribal shaman, and the woman wore a necklace that had an animal skull at its center. Talwyn held out her hands to them, and they, too, vanished into the smoke.
Jair felt an otherworldly calm settle over him as he awaited his spirit guides. After a moment, two warriors appeared out of the cloud. They were gray like the smoke, as was Jair’s spirit form, but when they offered him their hands in greeting, the touch felt solid and warm. Jair had not heard the spirit guides speak to either Pevre or Talwyn, but the taller of the two spirit warriors met his eyes and spoke to him in a low, strong voice. “Walk with us, and we will show you what we have seen.”
Jair nodded, uncertain whether he would be able to answer them, and he let the warriors guide him. The smoke closed around them, but a new vista opened up, and it seemed to Jair that they were walking among the hillsides of Margolan in the desolate countryside where barrows stood. He had no way to know whether they were still within the ceremonial tent or whether his spirit guides had taken him far beyond its canvas walls. They passed over the road without any sound of footsteps, and though Jair could see wind blowing the branches of the trees around them, he did not feel a breeze on his skin. The landscape seemed drained of all color, but the details were crisp, as if everything were washed by moonlight.
Jair followed his warrior spirits to a large barrow. He saw the wardings that were set by the Sworn long ago, protections most passersby would not notice, like the four oak trees planted at the quarters and the holly bushes planted at the cross quarters. High on the trunks of those trees, runes were cut deep into the bark. Belladonna, basil, and cowslip were planted around the barrow and over its mound to strengthen the magic. But as Jair approached with his spirit guides, he could see that something was terribly wrong.
The holly had been knocked down, and the trees viciously slashed. Where the bushes or the trees were too sturdy to fall, counter-runes had been carved into the bark to negate the magic. Bits of hellebore and black willow were strewn around and over the mound to cancel out the protective plants. A hole had been hacked into the side of the barrow, and above it was a rough wooden door frame. From the top of the frame hung the butchered body of a goat. Blood from the offering pooled at the entrance to the hole. In this spirit realm, Jair could feel the hidden energies roiling, and beyond them, a powerful dark presence that was hungry and searching.
“Who did this?” Jair asked his spirit guides.
The taller of the two men led them backward, and it looked as if everything around them moved in reverse with them, from the direction of the wind to the motion of the moon overhead. The barrow was now untouched. Jair and his guides watched as four men in black robes approached the barrow. One of the men lifted his arms and his hands began to move with the spell he cast as another of his companions withdrew a live rat from a bag and impaled it with a large knife into the ground at his feet. Jair watched as the four men carried out the desecrations he had seen, ending with the offering of the goat. Their heavy cowls hid their faces, but in the moonlight, Jair glimpsed the amulet that hung from a chain around one man’s neck, and he glimpsed the same amulet on the silver cuff of another. It was the three-bone charm, sacred to the Shrouded Ones, Peyhta, Konost, and Shanthadura.
Jair started toward the figures. Both of his spirit guides drew their stelians and blocked his way.
“Let me stop them!”
“What you see has already happened. It cannot be undone,” the shorter warrior said. “We show you what has already come to pass.”
They stood alone now in the shadow of the desecrated barrow. “Can the damage be repaired?” Jair asked, keeping a worried eye on the darkness that stretched down from the large hole hacked into the barrow’s side.
“If your shaman has the power,” the tall warrior replied. “This is but one barrow among many. But beware, blood calls blood.”
With a roar, something dark streaked from the opening. It blotted out the moonlight where it passed, stretching out like the flow of a black river. The two spirit guards moved to block it, and the taller guard turned to Jair.
“Return to your body. It knows you’re still alive. Go back among the living and it can’t follow.”
Jair fled into the smoke, hoping that he could find the path back to rejoin his body. Suddenly, he found himself in the ceremonial tent again, facing his body. Jair couldn’t tell whether Pevre and Talwyn had returned to themselves or whether they, also, faced danger in the paths of smoke. He ran at himself, and as his smoke spirit passed through his living flesh, his body jolted awake from its trance. Moments later, he saw Pevre and then Talwyn rejoin themselves as well. Talwyn took a final handful of herbs from the last of the containers, and the strong smell of rosemary and clove sealed the working. Talwyn shook her head as if to clear it, and then bowed toward the brazier before she stood. Jair and Pevre climbed to their feet beside her. The two guards opened the tent flap and a cool night breeze dissipated the last of the smoke.
Judging by the position of the moon, the ritual had taken several candlemarks. Talwyn motioned for Jair and Pevre to follow her back to their tent. Kenver was asleep on his mat. She poured wine for each of them and then brought out a tray of sliced apples, mint, and cheese to ground them once more in the world of the living. After they had eaten and finished the wine, Jair looked to Talwyn and Pevre.
“What did you see?”
Talwyn drew a deep breath. “I walked with the shamans to understand the binding of the barrow, long ago. They showed me how the protections were made, and how to re-bind the wardings.”
Pevre drained the last from his leather cup and laid it aside. “I walked with the chiefs to the last time the Dread were in the world. They’re neither good nor evil, but their power is far greater than ours. We wake them at our peril. They serve us best watching the gateways to the abyss.”
Talwyn turned to Jair. “And you?”
Jair nodded. “I didn’t have nearly the adventure you did. I probably saw only a week or so ago, when the barrow was desecrated. But there’s no doubt: The Durim are the ones who broke the wardings, although I don’t know what they thought it would do or what they were after.” He shivered. “Even so, something bad nearly got out. The spirit warriors blocked it, and they said if I returned to my body that whatever it was had no power over me, but it was like a large, solid, black shadow and it felt evil.”
Pevre looked thoughtful. “There are worse things than dimonns,” he said quietly. “The old stories say that, long ago, monsters walked the world. Things that look like the magicked beasts you’ve fought,” he said with a nod toward Jair. “But worse. Much worse. In those days, it didn’t take a blood mage to conjure the monsters, and they preyed on all living things.” He poured another draught of wine and settled back to continue the story. Jair guessed it was for his benefit, since he was certain Talwyn knew the old tales as well as her father.
“Long ago, the Shrouded Ones ruled the night. Peyhta, the Soul Eater, Konost, the Guide of Dead Souls, and Shanthadura, the Destroyer. They called the monsters and the monsters did their bidding. Some of the monsters were beasts. Some were like the shadow you describe. Some were dimonns, but dimonns with much greater power than those that find their way to the world today.”
“How were they defeated?” Jair asked, leaning forward.
“The Shrouded Ones are the Old Gods, as are the animal spirits: the predator-cat Stawar God in Eastmark, the Wolf God of the vyrkin, the Bear God of Trevath, and the Eagle God, still the patron of the Sworn. They were worshipped here long before the Winter Kingdoms were formed, when there were just bands of tribes wandering these lands, and later, when the first warlords began to bind those tribes into fiefdoms. But raiders came from the east and from the south. They worshipped a new goddess, one with eight faces. The Sacred Lady.” Pevre paused.
“The Light Aspects of the Sacred Lady-the Mother, the Childe, Chenne the Warrior, and the Lover-took the animal gods as their consorts. But the Dark Aspects-Sinha the Crone, Athira the Whore, Istra, the Dark Lady, and Nameless, the Formless One-fought the Shrouded Ones. Through their mages and shamans, they broke the power of the Shrouded Ones,” Pevre said. “Athira lured the Shrouded Ones to their downfall, and Sinha bound their monsters and sent them to the Abyss. Nameless scoured most of the followers of the Shrouded Ones from the lands. Istra called to the Dread to guard the Abyss, and she charged her best warriors to become the Sworn protectors of the barrows, to guard the Dread and keep the wardings.”
“But Nameless didn’t destroy all of the followers of the Shrouded Ones,” Talwyn added. “For centuries, in the far country, or up in the mountains, there were those who remembered the old ways and kept their rituals secret. Each time plague or famine would rise, the followers of Shanthadura, the Durim, would come to the fore again. And when the dark times passed, they would disappear once more. And now, plague, war, and famine have swept across the Winter Kingdoms. And like the pox, the Durim return to shed more blood.”
Jair sat in silence, letting the story sink in. “What do the Durim think will happen if they free whatever is down in the Abyss?”
Pevre shrugged. “We don’t know for certain. They won’t tell their secrets, and no one leaves the cult of Shanthadura alive. But I suspect their motives are simple. They would turn the monsters on their enemies and reinstate the worship of the Shrouded Ones.” He met Jair’s eyes. “And if that day comes, the Winter Kingdoms will fall into darkness. I’ve heard stories from some of the old vayash moru about how the Black Robes terrorized the people, about the human sacrifices and the ritual deaths. We can’t allow those times to return.”
“What now?” Jair looked from Talwyn to Pevre. “Can we renew the warding that was broken on the barrow they desecrated?”
Talwyn avoided his eyes. “Yes.”
“Yes… but?” Jair probed, getting the feeling that he was not going to like the full answer.
“I have to spirit walk into the barrow. My magic isn’t strong enough by itself to reinstate the wardings. I have to ask the Dread for help.”
“They’re neutral in this, right?” Jair asked, fearing for Talwyn’s safety. “You’ll be able to return when you’re through?”
Talwyn took a deep breath. “I’ll need an anchor. I’m not a summoner, so my soul doesn’t actually leave my body, but my consciousness-my spirit-does. Sometimes, when the spirit walks, it can lose its way, especially in the dark places. Normally, I’d ask Father to anchor me, but I need him to work some of the wardings.” She reached out to take Jair’s hand. “We’re oath-bound. You can anchor me. I’ll see the light of your spirit to find my way back to my body.”
“And if you can’t?”
Talwyn looked away again. “Then my body remains, but without consciousness. It will sleep without waking until it dies from hunger or thirst, but my spirit will be lost.”
“I don’t like this,” Jair said, looking from Talwyn to Pevre. “Surely there’s another way.”
“There’s no other choice,” Pevre said, and his tone gave Jair to know that Pevre did not like Talwyn’s plan, either.
Jair could see in Talwyn’s eyes that she understood the risk, to herself, to the Sworn, and to the Winter Kingdoms should she fail. And Jair knew that he could not refuse her, even though his fear for her chilled him to the bone. “Then you know I’ll be your anchor. You knew before you asked.”
Talwyn gave him a wan smile. “I believed you would do what must be done.”
The moon was rising as Talwyn, Pevre, and Jair went to the barrows. With them went four of the Sworn’s warriors, to assure that the working would be uninterrupted. Jair knew that tonight, the stelian that hung from his belt would be useless. Tonight’s battle would be decided by Talwyn’s magic and the cooperation-or lack thereof-of the Dread.
He watched nervously as Talwyn and Pevre made their preparations. Magic was widely practiced in Dhasson, but unlike his cousin, Tris Drayke, Jair had no magical power of his own. He hoped, and feared, that Kenver would inherit his mother’s power. His own lack of magic left Jair feeling helpless as the others prepared for the confrontation. Talwyn wore the robes that were a mark of her role as shaman and as the daughter-and heir-of the chief. Talwyn’s robes were woven in rich shades of ochre, sepia, and hues of green, the colors of the ground and the plants from which the Sworn called their power. Embroidered into the robes were symbols and runes as well as a complex pattern that seemed to brighten and dim with every breath Talwyn took.
Pevre, also, was dressed to work magic. Tonight, Pevre wore the ceremonial regalia of a Sworn chieftain, and the mantle of a shaman. A breastplate of leather set with runes in carved bone and precious stones covered his chest and back. Leather vambraces set with silver covered his forearms. A tunic woven in shades of blue, green, and brown extended beneath his breastplate, matching his trews, and a mantle that matched the robe Talwyn wore lay across Pevre’s shoulders. From his belt hung tokens of favor from the Consort Spirits: the claw of a stawar, the eyetooth of a bear, a charm made with the fur of a wolf, and two wing feathers from an eagle.
Jair came dressed to fight. He wore the leather battle armor of the Sworn warriors, and his stelian hung close by his side, along with an array of knives and throwing blades sheathed in a baldric across his chest. On his right hand, he wore the signet ring of the heir to the throne of Dhasson, and on his left palm, the tattoo that marked him as one of the trinnen. Though he would have been well-armed for any mortal battle, tonight, Jair felt at a decided disadvantage.
Talwyn raised her arms to signal that she was ready to begin the working. Pevre began a steady rhythmic beat on the hand drum he had carried from the village. Talwyn started to chant in the language of the Sworn, and Jair followed along, swaying to the rhythm of her words.
“Faces of the Sacred Lady, turn to me. I am your daughter. Honored dead, protect me. We are kin. Consorts, I ask you to accompany me. Spirits of the Dread, permit me to enter.” As Talwyn spoke, her form began to shimmer. And as she called to the spirits, a mist rose from the land around her, and as Jair watched, shapes began to appear in the mist, only to vanish like smoke a moment later. Jair thought he glimpsed the ghosts of Sworn warriors, still bearing their death wounds, and the wizened faces of long-dead ancestors. The figure of a woman with long, black hair turned to face Jair, and for an instant, he thought he had come face-to-face with Istra, the Dark Lady. The image vanished as quickly as it came, and Jair saw new shapes coalesce in the mist. Beside Talwyn were a bear, a large wolf, and a large, black predatory cat that was as big as the wolf. Jair recognized it as a stawar, one of the most feared hunters of the Eastern plains. Talwyn took a deep breath, and her robes fell away, leaving her skyclad. From the mist above her head, the figure of an eagle landed on her outstretched forearm.
Talwyn’s body collapsed atop her discarded robes, and a spirit image stepped away from her still form. The spirit image gave one glance back toward Jair and then moved to the crude doorway the Black Robes had erected over the hole they had dug into the side of the barrow. Darkness extended down into the tomb. Talwyn’s spirit image paused at the entrance and she bowed, and then her lips moved, but Jair could not hear her words. Accompanied by the spirits of the Consorts, Talwyn vanished into the darkness.
“How will I know if she needs me?” Jair asked, when Pevre slowed his drumming.
“You’ll know. It’s not unlike the bond between a healer and his assistant. It’s your life energy that her spirit will follow back to you and back to her body.”
Jair looked toward the place where Talwyn’s body lay crumpled and still surrounded by her robes. Everything in him wanted to run to her and gather her into his arms, but both Talwyn and Pevre had warned him to disturb nothing. Instead, he stared into the darkness of the shaft Talwyn had entered, straining to see a glow or a wisp that might give him any hint of what was going on.
Jair felt suddenly off balance, as if someone had shoved him hard from the side. He opened his eyes, and everything around him changed as quickly as if tapestries with a different landscape had been unfurled all around him. Distantly, he heard Pevre’s voice.
“Steady, lad. Talwyn’s drawn you into the bond. You see what she sees. Watch, and do nothing.”
Pevre’s warning was easier heard than followed. Through the bond, Jair felt Talwyn’s fear as she and the spirit guides wound their way deeper into the barrow. The path led through complete darkness, and a mortal might have had to crawl to follow the winding, mazelike passageway. More than once, the path dropped away into air, as if whoever had made the barrows for the Dread anticipated mortal tomb raiders and set traps for them. Talwyn and her spirit guides continued, unimpeded.
A growing feeling of uneasiness seized Jair, like the wind before a storm. His skin prickled with fear, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Talwyn was afraid, but Jair felt her muster her courage to press forward. The darkness became oppressive, suffocating, as if the shadows themselves had mass. Jair felt Talwyn and her spirit guides stop.
“Show yourselves!” Talwyn’s voice rang out in the darkness. “I’ve come to restore the wardings. I can’t do it without your help.”
Before Talwyn spoke, Jair thought the darkness of the barrow was absolute. But as he watched through Talwyn’s eyes, the darkness grew even blacker, but this time, Jair knew that the Dread moved in the shadows. Through Talwyn, Jair could feel the gaze of the ancient watchers, and a shiver of power ran through him. Whoever-whatever-the Dread were, they had not been human in a very long time.
“Blood has awakened what long slumbered,” a sonorous voice rumbled from the sentient shadows. “Our task has become more difficult.”
“We hunt the ones who disturbed your rest, the ones who shed blood to awaken what you guard. But I can’t do the magic to seal the barrow again by myself. I don’t have your power. Will you work with me?”
“You are not the only one who seeks our help,” the rumbling voice replied. “For a thousand years, we have remained below, to guard the abyss. We have not meddled in your ways. Now, new powers have arisen, and they would court us. What do you know of this?”
“New powers? The Durim?”
“No. The Durim do as they are bid. Distant power, drenched in blood. It calls to us, but it truly seeks those whom we guard.”
“I know nothing of these ‘new powers,’ ” Talwyn replied. “But if they seek to awaken the monsters of the Abyss, then surely, they are the enemy of the Sworn.”
“Perhaps.” The voice echoed through the deep places of the barrow and Jair shivered. The tone of the disembodied voice said as much as its words. While the Dread had been buried with their prisoners for centuries, whether or not they chose to remain so was up to the Dread. For the first time, Jair realized that the wardings had no power over the Dread themselves, serving only to keep mortals from entering the barrows and to keep the monsters sealed in the Abyss from escaping. Now, Jair shared Talwyn’s realization that should the Dread choose to walk again among mortals, no power in the Winter Kingdoms could stop them.
In the distant shadows, Jair heard whispers of other voices, and farther beyond, the muted snarls of horrors he did not wish to see. As if the Dread had conferred among themselves, the rumbling voice suddenly returned.
“We will help you, daughter of the Sworn. But heed this warning: We keep our own counsel. A great darkness is coming. We have not yet determined how-or whether-we will act. Do not presume to know our mind.”
Talwyn clasped her hands in front of her and bowed to the spirits. “Thank you, guardians. I will bear your warning.”
“Leave us now. When you rejoin your body, you will have the knowledge and the power you need to ward the barrow. Do not come to us again unless we summon you.”
Jair shook off the trance and looked up. Talwyn’s spirit image and her guides were making their way toward them through the mist. The spirit-Talwyn stood before her crumpled body, and then stepped into the form, raising it around her. Talwyn blinked and took a deep breath. Her amber eyes glowed with power, and the spirit guides moved beside her as she walked toward the barrows. She spoke in a language Jair had never heard, and the words seemed impossible to fix in his mind, as if it was not given for mortals to remember them. The hole in the side of the barrow filled in; no, Jair thought, it healed as if the soil and rock were sinew and skin.
Pevre was the first to move. He began to beat his hand drum in rhythm with the strange chant that Talwyn sang. Jair felt fatigue wash over him, and he realized that Talwyn had begun to draw from his energy to sustain herself as she worked the magic. Linked to Talwyn, Jair felt energy crackle around him as if lightning had struck at close range. The pull from Talwyn was stronger now, and her face was set with fierce concentration. Jair had only rarely seen Talwyn work this level of magic. He could not shake off a primal fear of the power that consumed her and the steady pull that drew from his own life force.
Linked to Talwyn, Jair saw the barrow begin to glisten, and he realized that he was seeing the magic as Talwyn saw it. Honeyed strands of power wove around the barrow, glowing brighter as they crossed and reinforced each other. Jair could feel the hum of Talwyn’s power and the echo of old, strong magic as the power of the Dread reinforced what Talwyn did. Caught up in the link, Jair felt the damage to the barrow as if it were a physical injury, and he sensed the relief of the land and the Dread as it was restored. Gradually, the mist around them began to thin. One by one, the spirit guides that had accompanied Talwyn into the barrow walked into the mist and disappeared. Talwyn staggered, and Jair glanced to Pevre, who nodded that it was safe to go to her. Jair grabbed Talwyn’s robe and gathered her into his arms as she began to collapse, completely spent.
“Did you see?” Talwyn murmured.
“I saw,” Jair replied. “You were amazing.”
“Then you heard… the warning?”
Jair nodded. “I heard. And we’ll figure out what to make of it later. Right now, I want to get you home and let you rest.” He wrapped her robes around her as if dressing a small child.
Talwyn nodded, but her head fell forward as if she were too exhausted to hold it up. Pevre joined them as they walked back to their horses, and he took Talwyn from Jair until Jair could swing up to the saddle. On the short ride back to the camp, Talwyn nestled against Jair as her horse followed behind them.
Jair was glad that Kenver had already gone to sleep. Talwyn was pale and her breathing seemed shallow. He carried her into the tent and set her on the bed. Talwyn reached out to take his hand.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“I just stood there,” Jair said, managing a smile. “You did all the hard work.”
“You did more than you know. You sustained me.” Talwyn’s voice was distant and sleepy. Jair brushed the dark hair back from her face and brought her a cup of wine and a few slices of apple.
“Sleep now. We’ll talk with Pevre in the morning. I don’t know what to make of the warning the Dread gave you, but among the three of us, we’ll figure it out. For starters, it seems like the kind of thing Tris should know about. I’m sure I can get a message to him.”
Talwyn’s eyes fluttered closed. “Stay with me,” she murmured.
Jair leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Always, m’lady.”