Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Timesplicer
“SO YOU are the Duke of Trathmere’s widow,” said the ugly, smooth-skinned man who called himself Prime Inquisitor to the Khadrach Emperor.
A sudden rush of grief forced Elienne to look down. Scarcely an hour had passed since the Khadrach army had claimed her home and her husband’s life, and the words had a lonely, unreal sound. The heavy, blood-crusted boots of halberdiers still seemed nightmarishly out of place against the glass mosaic floor of Trathmere Keep’s great hall.
“Answer me, bitch!” said the Inquisitor.
Elienne bridled at his tone, forgetting her torn, soot- stained gown and swollen face. She raised her head and glowered at the rat-faced Inquisitor.
“You dare,” she spoke quietly, “you dare call me that? Khadrach mervine! May Hell’s own Demons defecate on your tongue. It seems fit for little else.”
The Inquisitor blinked, hot eyes framed in a reddening face. His jeweled collar of office glittered like blue flame in the torchlight as he sat back, slowly. Anger always made him careful.
“So.” He licked thin lips. “The Lady can curse like a mercenary.”
Elienne glared.
The Inquisitor laced his veined hands on the table before him. “Woman,” he said, “you’re a Duke’s widow, less, even, than the little worm that hatches a fly. You have no worth. Unless, of course, you carry the Duke of Trathmere’s unborn heir?”
Without pausing for her answer, the Inquisitor flicked a glance over Elienne’s thin body.
“I see not,” he observed.
Elienne again shut her eyes. The night before, Cinndel had come to her bed for the first time in weeks, perhaps knowing it was fated to be his last. There was a small chance ... but Elienne crushed the memory at once. Children were not conceived by husbands worn and hardened like flint before the tides of a hopeless war. And scarcely a week past, Elienne had had evidence she was not with child.
She opened her eyes as the Inquisitor went on.
“As mother of Trathmere’s heir, you would have some stature in the eyes of the Emperor. As Trathmere’s widow, you are an obstacle in his path. By Khadrach Law, only women of blood descent may inherit. The Duchy of Trathmere, therefore, becomes a prize of war, and yourself, my sharp-mannered Lady...” The Inquisitor paused, smiling venomously. “You become chattel of the estate, less, even, than the hens in the byre, for at least they and their eggs may be eaten.”
Elienne felt her neck warm beneath the thick, dark knot of hair that had fallen loose across her shoulders. Despite the fear that nestled like a toad in her stomach, she drew a long, steady breath. “Tell me, Inquisitor”—her tone became acid—”do all Khadrachi carry their manhood in their bellies?”
The Inquisitor shot half out of his chair before he could curb his temper. He rearranged himself like a snake coiling to strike, and rage splintered abruptly into laughter.
“That was a foolish challenge, Little One.” He turned to the halberdiers. “Have her brought to my chambers at sundown. She will learn quickly how a Khadrach officer likes his bed warmed. Until then, lock her away. I find her manner offensive.”
“Touch me, and you’ll learn regret!” said Elienne. The Inquisitor ignored her. He nodded to the halberdiers.
A gauntleted hand prodded Elienne’s back. Rather than allow herself to be driven like an animal, Elienne gathered the tattered ruin of her skirt and walked from the hall. Though she did her best to ignore the clanking presence of her escort, pretended indifference did nothing to loosen the terror that circled her thoughts like a garrote. She had acted rashly. Cinndel was dead. What had she thought to gain by further resistance?
“I love you for your horrid, saucy little tongue,” Cinndel had once said to her. The memory brought tears despite her attempt at control. She stumbled blindly. The misstep earned her an ungentle shove from a halberd haft. Elienne blinked quickly to clear her eyes, and found herself guided around a corner and down another corridor. Lancet windows cast patterns of light and shadow like a game board, herself the pawn haplessly manipulated across its wide squares. Elienne shivered. Already the sun slanted toward late afternoon. Night would be upon her all too swiftly.
The halberdiers stopped at last before a portal bound with ancient, rusted iron. Lurid orange stains streaked the oak panels between, caused, Elienne knew, by condensation from Trathmere castle’s dungeons. In her memory, the door had never been opened. But the shock and revulsion she felt only inspired amused laughter and grins from her guards.
“Got cold feet, little Lady?” said one. “Inquisitor’ll warm ‘em, sure‘s fire.”
The door opened with a torturous groan, spilling a wash of damp air. A man was sent for a torch. Elienne waited in silence and struggled to contain her apprehension. The cresset’s guttering, smoky light revealed a littered stair that plunged down into darkness. Elienne forced an outward show of courage. Cinndel had disliked women who were silly and afraid. The chilly touch of a halberd against her shoulder pressed her forward.
Gritty stone met Elienne’s slippered foot, and cobwebs trailed like ghost fingers through her hair as she descended. Daylight faded behind, replaced by the fitful flicker of torchlight. The stair ended in a corridor so low the soldiers had to stoop. Confined, the reek of tallow and sweat became stifling. The curses and clangs as helms scraped against slime-caked stone made Elienne want to stop her ears.
The soldiers thrust her into the first available cell. A thin slice of light fell through the barred slot in the door while the soldiers wrestled slide bolts jammed with rust. Elienne heard an annoyed order accompanied by the jingle of steel mail as her escort unslung weapons and pounded the bolts home.
“Bide well, little Lady.” Rough voices and torchlight receded, leaving Elienne in darkness. Minutes later, she heard the moaning complaint of the upper door being drawn closed. The echoes died slowly into thick silence broken erratically by the sullen drip of water. Elienne reached out to orient herself. Her hand met stonework soft with slime, and something wet squirmed away from her touch.
Elienne flinched back. The curse she uttered would have embarrassed a stablehand, but the effect was ruined by the shuddering sob that followed. Cinndel had frowned upon tears, but he was dead. The spirit he had admired in her had earned no less than the shame of the Inquisitor’s bed. Succumbing to the despair that had driven her since Trathmere’s fall, Elienne allowed herself to cry. Better here, she felt, than before Khadrach eyes.
She quieted after a time. The tears dried on her cheeks, and the water drop’s monotonous song became predictable and familiar to her ears. It reminded her of the water clock her uncle had tried to rig with chimes. The mechanical portion had never worked properly, and it was forever striking the hour out of sequence. Elienne pushed the memory aside and leaned wearily back against the door. The Khadrach had burned both her uncle and his silly clock. The Emperor’s armies had marred almost everything that had ever given her pleasure, and uttering another stinging curse, Elienne lapsed into silence.
* * *
Time passed, but Elienne had no way to mark the hours. The waiting was long—perhaps the Inquisitor had forgotten her? More likely the dark, damp solitude stretched minutes to hours below, while above the sun had not yet set. Then, abruptly, she realized she was no longer alone. The darkness remained impenetrable as before, the water drop an erratic solo against stillness; yet, for no apparent reason, Elienne sensed a presence with her that had not been in the cell before. It evaded definition.
Uneasy, but not yet afraid, Elienne pushed herself away from the door. She reached out, but groping fingers met nothing. There was nothing there, she thought, stung by self-reproach. No tangible cue sparked her imagination, only nerves. Still the feeling persisted. Something, or someone, had invaded her solitude.
Half in annoyance, Elienne reached out again. This time her fingers encountered the sharp, cold prickle of an Enchanter’s craft.
Elienne gasped and drew back. The Enchanters were surely dead, all of them; Guild Tower had been mercilessly leveled by Khadrach. Any survivors would have learned better than to practice loremagic within the Emperor’s lands. And what could an Enchanter offer but illusions anyway, Elienne thought. Anger at her helplessness followed.
“Show yourself, meddler,” she said sharply. Her troubles were great enough without a stranger intruding on them. “Show yourself! I am sick to death of guessing you out.”
A faint light sparked into existence before her. With a thin snap, it flared into startling brilliance. Darkness shattered, knifed into sudden shadows. Elienne shielded aching eyes with her hands, half-blinded, and found herself face to face with a Sorcerer.
He was dressed richly in the heavy blues of twilight, his cloak lined with red. His features were mapped with the usage of centuries. The light, brilliant and dense as a winter star, hung poised over the palm of his hand. Without asking, Elienne realized he hailed from no Guild in Trathmere, or in any other land listed in the archivists’ records. This was no dabbler in images.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
The Sorcerer dimmed his light and, with a flick of his finger, set it adrift. His mouth reflected forced patience, and light eyes regarded her with the dispassionate intensity of a snake. “I am called Ielond.”
“Searcher,” translated Elienne, wondering even as she spoke. The name derived from no language she knew. Meaning could have come only from Ielond’s own touch upon her mind. Overwhelmingly awakened to the fact she confronted a wielder of intense and dangerous power, Elienne was unable to curb the question that rose like a challenge to meet him.
“What do you seek in Trathmere’s dungeons, Gifted? Khadrach have no love for your kind.”
“I seek a bride for the Prince of Pendaire.”
Elienne’s temper flared, heated by memory of Cinndel, whom she loved without thought for another. “Myself, Gifted? Am I the one you came for?”
Staring upward, Elienne read her answer in the Sorcerer’s impassive silence. “Devil and Demons take that idea! Keep your Prince, Gifted. Better I take my chances with that mervine of an Inquisitor. Himself I am free to hate.”
“Keep still.” Above Ielond’s shoulder, the light flared like a small sun. “You will wed my Prince only if you prove worthy—and your manner with strangers shows regrettable lack of courtesy.”
“Then search elsewhere, I beg you.” Elienne fought to contain sudden tears, overcome by the sensation that there was nothing understandable left in the world.
Quiet for a long moment, Ielond stood with his head bent, perhaps listening to the lonely splash of the water. Elienne glared at him through swimming eyes and noticed his face had softened a little.
“Will you leave, Gifted? I have little desire to be any man’s companion.”
Ielond spoke at last with measured, forceful phrases. “I will go, Lady Elienne, if that is what you wish. But before you speak, hear me. Your choice will also affect the life of the child you carry within you.”
Elienne stepped back, clumsily, into the door. Her hands moved instinctively to her middle. “Last night,” she whispered, and felt chilled. Could it be true, after all, that Cinndel ...
Ielond finished the thought with icy abruptness. “Fathered a child upon you, yes. Before you allow yourself hope, hear what alternatives await you. The Inquisitor will take you to his bed, come nightfall. He will be startled by your beauty, for he did not notice it this afternoon beneath the dirt. If you manage to control your tongue in his presence, he will take you on as consort. Cinndel’s son will be claimed as his own blood without hope of proof to the contrary.”
Elienne gasped, suddenly pale beneath soot-streaked skin. “Never. Not while I live.”
“That is but one alternative,” Ielond continued remorselessly. “There is another. You will slight the Inquisitor with your customary lack of tact. He, in a subsequent fit of temper, will break your neck. Mistress, it will take you eight months to die, and your child will miscarry.”
Elienne pressed against her prison door, wrung speechless with horror.
“Or you can come with me,” Ielond said, “and perhaps be saved. I cannot promise such choice will be without peril, but the Prince is a just man, and your son would become heir to Pendaire’s throne.”
Elienne dragged air into her lungs to curse, but her throat locked against words. Suddenly she wished Ielond had not told her of the child, for that knowledge made her yet more vulnerable than before. She was also afraid. No Guild Sorcerer ever known could appear at will behind locked doors. What sort of man was the Prince of Pendaire, who sent an adept powerful as Ielond to search for his bride?
“You must choose, and quickly.” Ielond gestured impatiently. The stamp of booted feet could be heard descending the dungeon stair, and stone walls threw back unpleasant echoes of male laughter. The guardsmen had spent a busy interval celebrating their victory with drink. Gripped by sudden revulsion, Elienne made her decision.
“I will go.” She hoped the Inquisitor’s wrath would kill him when he learned of her escape.
She had no chance to reflect further. Ielond seized her wrist in a crushing grip. The light exploded above him with a splitting crackle, enveloping them both in a starry skein of sparks. A great rush of wind followed. Elienne’s hair whipped her face, and through stinging eyes she saw her cell dissolve into spark-shot darkness, replaced impossibly by an expanse of ocean viewed from tremendous height. Stars shone cobalt and white against the indigo depths of the sky.
Fear prickled like an insect down Elienne’s spine. Ielond’s hand on her arm was her only contact with the sorcery that held her suspended over the void. Her predicament was no trick of illusion designed to awe the ignorant; the distant splash of whitecaps and the salt smell in her nostrils was distressingly real.
Such power over natural law lay beyond comprehension. Elienne shut the sight away behind closed eyes. Abruptly oppressed by the unnamed host of implications her simple consent might demand, she had a perverse desire to pull free. The Prince of Pendaire was none of her concern.
Without warning, the night was split by an icy blast of air. Ielond’s cloak streamed like a flag. Elienne was hurled forcefully into his shoulder; the sorcerer shouted instructions, but the words were unintelligible to ears dazed by a screaming rush of sounds. The wind struck again. The gale flung Elienne like a kite. Ielond’s iron fingers burned her wrist. He shouted again, urgently. but Elienne could not understand him. Wind filled her mouth and lungs thick as water. Speech was impossible.
The demon wind eddied. Elienne twisted like a toy. Wrist, hand, and elbow flamed in sudden agony. Ielond’s grip loosened. The wind screeched and tore, then gusted with the shriek of a titan and broke the Sorcerer’s grip.
The sky upended. Elienne’s stomach twisted with the plunge as she plummeted through a tumbling panorama of sky and seafoam cold-lit by starlight. She lost sight of Ielond. A dark, damp streamer of cloud swallowed her effort to find him.
Panic-stricken, Elienne stifled an urge to scream. Instead she flung out both hands and groped.
Her fingers grazed cloth. “Ielond!”
Hands fumbled, then gripped her. Strong arms caught her shoulders, bundling her roughly against a hard, male chest. Muffled in cloth that smelled faintly of spices, Elienne struggled to free her face, without success.
The Sorcerer’s grip only tightened. Pressed so close she thought she would suffocate, Elienne fell limp. To her, dizzied by stormwind and darkness, it seemed as though Ielond would bear her through the Eye of Eternity before the howling fury that buffeted her would abate.
Yet abate it did, finally, with such a wrench the very earth might have stopped turning. Elienne’s feet struck solid ground. Ielond transferred his grip to her shoulders, anger cold and still upon his face.
“Listen with care,” he said. “I have enemies who are powerful and ruthless. They seek your life, for they would rather my Prince remained childless and unwed. So long as you stay within my sphere of influence, you have my protection. But should you, even in thought, wish yourself elsewhere, you imperil us both.”
Elienne covered her face, blocking the Sorcerer from sight. She was shaking. Her skin prickled with apprehension, and her thoughts still echoed with the horror of her fall.
“You made your decision.” Devoid of compromise, Ielond’s voice trapped her wandering attention. “Stand by your word, Elienne of Trathmere. Your life depends upon your commitment. Look upon the extent of it.”
Ielond’s hold shifted. Elienne felt herself twisted about.
“Look well, my Lady,” commanded the Sorcerer.
Elienne lowered her hands and gasped. Bathed in azure twilight, a desolate expanse of icefields spread before her, uninterrupted by habitation or settlement. The blocky spine of a mountain range cut the horizon into hard-edged angles. Elienne gazed upon that eerie, empty landscape and wondered why she felt no sensation of cold.
Ielond spun her gently back to face him. The light Elienne had noticed earlier in the cell drifted above his shoulder like a captive star. He said, “You are protected by my sphere of influence. Three paces from my person, your flesh would freeze to powder in seconds. Take warning.”
Elienne gave no indication she had heard. Trembling and arrogant, she stood still as Ielond fingered the torn ruin of her dress. Her emotionless gaze followed as the Sorcerer summoned his light and balanced it on the tip of his finger. Neither did she blink as that finger extended toward her and the hot, prickling energy of enchantment burned across her face. She simply held still and endured.
The Sorcerer’s touch roved across her person. Where it passed, it transformed. Tangled, sooty hair became combed and shining. Torn clothes and abraded skin knit without trace of flaw, and spun wool acquired the watery, smooth sheen of butter-colored silk.
Ielond paused to admire his handiwork. “That should serve well enough.”
Elienne examined the gown that clothed her. The hand she raised to touch was weighted unfamiliarly with gems at wrist and finger. They were heavy and cold; real.
“The traditional gold of Pendaire‘s brides becomes you well,” Ielond observed, and this time his words drew reaction.
Elienne stiffened. Anger bloomed across her pale cheeks. “Would you marry me to a stranger on the day of my husband’s death?” Hysteria edged her voice, and her eyes sparkled with sudden tears. “Well, would you, Gifted?”
Ielond declined answer. “You are overwrought,” but his intended kindness was lost upon Elienne. She stepped back as he reached for her.
“Overwrought!” said Elienne. “Your heart is cold as Etemity, Gifted. Let Pendaire‘s Prince seek his own bride, if indeed he has the manhood.”
Ielond caught Elienne as she turned, pulling her to him. She expected his immediate anger. She received instead a view of raised brows and a startled, rueful smile.
“I see I did not err in my choice. You must forgive my haste. If we survive the consequence of what you just wrought, I promise you won’t regret.”
“Consequence?” Elienne shrugged coldly, but Ielond did not release her.
“Just that,” said Ielond, and at that moment the whirlwind caught them. Ice-edged and furious, Elienne recognized the same force that had torn her from Ielond’s grasp earlier. Chilled through her thin silk, she braced herself with a rising sense of apprehension. When the Sorcerer’s arms encircled her from behind and gathered her into a bear hug, she did not struggle.
The wind rushed and eddied, carving the ice crystals underfoot into whirling patterns until the air became saturated, opaquely white. Ielond’s cloak snapped back on itself with whipcrack reports. Yet he stood as a rock does when battered by storm and surf, Elienne held secure in his embrace.
The wind passed as swiftly as it had sprung up. Ielond and Elienne stood in silent sheets of settling snow, neither one moving. At last Elienne drew a hesitant breath and spoke. “I caused that?”
Ielond nodded. “You stand within my sphere of influence, under my protection. When you resist me, even in thought, you match your polarity to that of my enemies, augmenting their strength. You provide them opening, since you are within my defenses, and through your dissent I am made vulnerable. This is why I urge you to guard your thoughts.”
Elienne stared. “Then I could have destroyed you?”
“You might yet,” said Ielond flatly. “I consider it worth the risk.”
The snowfall had thinned, relinquishing its hold on sky and landscape. Yet instead of relaxing, Ielond’s grip on Elienne tightened.
“We have been overtaken.” His tone went suddenly cold. “Whatever your sentiments, Mistress, you would be wise to hold them neutral until I am through.”
Elienne followed the Sorcerer’s eyes. Thinly veiled by the last drifting flakes, a rider stood before them, cowled in black. Decorative borders of gold threadwork adorned his neck and hood, framing features incisively lean. His hands were gloved with mail, also of gold. His mount was equine in shape, but its flesh glinted like brass newly polished. Scaled like a snake, it emanated viciousness from armored crest to spiked tail, and its master seemed possessed by the black stillness of Eternity.
“Faisix.” Ielond’s voice startled Elienne.
The rider moved. Pale lips turned upward into a thin smile. “Ielond. Is my projection that good?”
“Adequate,” said Ielond. Elienne could feel the beat of the Sorcerer’s heart through her back, and his arms tightened like a vise around her waist.
Faisix laughed, the sound like a whisper against the cold expanse of the icefields. “By that, I assume you realize I am here in flesh.”
Ielond declined answer. The laughter ceased.
“The woman is unwilling,” Faisix said abruptly. “Twice she has expressed her desire to be released from your care. I answer her call.”
“I refuse your claim,” Ielond responded. “Return whence you came.”
The thin smile repeated itself. “I have brought news from Pendaire. Would you dismiss me before you have heard? Or are you no longer interested in your royal ward?”
“There is little you could tell that I do not already know.”
Faisix crossed his arms and leaned on his mount’s neck. “Indeed? Not even the fact that, in Pendaire, Summer’s Eve is already past? Your Prince failed to meet his deadline, my friend. His seed is sterile. The Council has named him unfit for the crown and the continuance of a royal line. By its decree, the execution ceremony will occur on the morrow.”
“Why!” Elienne burst out. “Do you murder a man in Pendaire because he cannot father a child?”
Faisix transferred yellow eyes from Ielond, and, feeling his gaze upon her, Elienne was suddenly cold.
“It is custom only for Kings, Mistress.” The words were gently stated but somehow inspired no confidence. “Princes have supporters. If the crown must pass into other hands, peace must be kept. There cannot be excuse left for uprising. It is an ancient law, seldom invoked, perhaps because few Princes are born with such an unfortunate aflliction.”
“You have the justice of a toad,” said Elienne hotly, “and your councilmen have the minds of fishes. Certainly Ielond will stop this execution you speak of.”
Faisix shook his head slowly, a final smile thinning his lips. “Certainly Ielond would if he could. But my second piece of news proves otherwise. The Sorcerer known to us all as Ielond died Summer’s Eve in Pendaire.”
“Liar!” cried Elienne. The man at her back was warm, alive, and solidly real.
“Ask him,” Faisix invited. “He will tell you so.”
Elienne turned and searched the face of the Sorcerer who held her. His expression was all seams and twilit shadows, impossible to fathom.
She said, “Is it true?”
“Yes,” said Ielond. “Faisix has named my true death. He has also unwittingly brought me word of success.”
“Can dead men succeed?” gibed Faisix. “Then your Prince will succeed with you, Ielond.”
He returned his gaze to Elienne. “You called me, Mistress, and I have come. Shall you forsake that corpse’s company? Come to me. It was your desire.”
Faisix extended his hand. “Come,” he repeated. The word seemed to release a torrent within Elienne’s mind. All the confusion she had experienced since Cinndel’s death welled up at once, pressuring her to step forward, away from Ielond’s prisoning grasp.
“Be wary,” said the Sorcerer in her ear. “His promises will not be what they seem.”
Elienne gave no sign she had heard. Her face remained drawn with indecision. The small jewels that adorned her throat trembled like pale green waterdrops.
“Ielond cannot hold you.” Faisix‘s voice was honey and ice. “If he crosses your will but once in my presence, Mistress, I can destroy him for you.”
Elienne’s face drained entirely of color. “I thought you said he was dead.” Her voice shook, uncertain.
Faisix ignored the challenge. “Come to me, my Lady,” he urged, and raised one slim hand from his mount’s neck and lifted the cowl from his head. A haze of golden light bloomed under his fingers. Lean features softened and flowed as the illumination touched them, transformed the face to a gray-eyed, chestnut-headed man pleasantly proportioned.
Elienne flinched as though struck by a physical blow. She gasped aloud. “Cinndel!” Her small frame quivered with tension like a harpstring plucked by an unskilled hand.
“Come to me, beloved,” the mounted man said softly. “Come.”
“My Lord is dead.” Elienne’s inflection was lifelessly flat. The torn, bloodied corpse she had dragged from the weapons of the Khadrach had been real enough to shatter even this skilled fantasy. Her husband’s death had been final as Eternity itself. The image on the horse mocked her with false promise. Drawing a great shuddering breath, Elienne broke.
“Mindbender!” she shouted. “Defiler! Release my husband’s likeness. You aren’t fit to wash the clothes he wore. I’ll not have you dishonor his memory with sorceries.”
Cinndel’s features unraveled, exposing the face of Faisix. Anger clothed its delicate, narrow bone structure, and the golden eyes held murder.
“Woman, still your viperish tongue,” he said, whetting his consonants with menace.
But Elienne had passed beyond caution, and the pain within her could no longer be restrained. “Beside you, the abominations of the mervine are the picture of innocence. Your presence itself is an atrocity. I would sooner welcome the foulest demon of Hell than suffer the sight of you.”
Elienne twisted in Ielond’s grasp, violently presenting her back to the subject of her insults. She buried her face in the Sorcerer’s cloak, and he, gathering her weeping body close, faced his adversary over her heaving shoulders.
“It would seem your offer has been refused,” he said quietly. “Go from this place.”
Faisix gathered the reins in his mailed fist. For a prolonged moment he sat and glared, the image of fury. At last he pointed to Elienne. “She,” he said coldly, “will regret her words through the Eye of Eternity before I am through,” and like powder blown before wind, both he and his mount dissolved, leaving the ice plain empty in the deepening shadow of night.
Ielond placed his hands on Elienne and gently pried her away from his chest.
With his eyes caught on her tear-streaked face, he said, “What in the Name of the Most Holy is a mervine?”
Elienne stared back, blank with shock. Then her thin face transformed and a broken laugh escaped her throat. “It’s a relative of the weasel.” She caught her breath. “And more properly phrased as a creature of Hell. The dominant offspring of each litter consumes its siblings at maturity. If the surviving kitten is male, it will also couple with its own mother before leaving the nest. Have you no mervine in Pendaire?”
“We have Faisix and a very corrupt Grand Council,” said Ielond. “That is share enough of the Devil’s handiwork.”
Elienne closed her eyes and shuddered. “What are we going to do about them?” Her voice still sounded strained, but there was a fresh spot of color in her cheeks, and the set to her lips proved she had spirit still in reserve.
“Ma’Diere’s Saints!” The light about Ielond’s shoulder lit his sudden smile. “We’re going to change history, my Lady, and send Faisix to his Damnation. But it cannot be done from here.”
“Then Faisix was wrong. You’ll not be dead on Summer’s Eve,” said Elienne quickly.
The Sorcerer’s smile faded at once. “Summer’s Eve in Pendaire is the locus of my true death.” His tone was suddenly clean of inflection. “Every action has its consequence, Mistress. That is one I cannot change if my Prince is to survive to claim his heirship.”
Elienne shook her head vehemently. “But if you died in Pendaire, how can you be alive in this place? Your words are like riddles, impossible to understand.”
Ielond placed an arm around Elienne’s shoulders. “Walk with me, and I’ll explain.”