The Ships of Merior. Janny Wurts

brightened the black iron wall sconces. The commemorative statues of Paravians housed on Althain’s ground floor wore a gloom only fitfully broken as the gleam that leaked through the arrowloops jinked across gold braid and trappings.

      Sethvir required no torch to see his way past the ranks of marble unicorns; the homed majesty of centaurs that loomed above his head; the waist-high maple pedestals that elevated the diminutive bronzes of Sun Children. If concern for the future burdened his thoughts, here, the past weighed unquiet as well. Through mage-sense, Sethvir felt the vibrational echoes left by the steps of former visitors. In winnowed air currents like moving chiaroscuro, he could trace the tides of old magics, ones wrought by Paravians in subliminal harmonics; and others more recent, of Fellowship craft, that feathered the skin like a tonic. Surrounding all, enduring as bedrock, lurked the guardspells that sealed Althain Tower from the world and its troubles outside.

      The sorcerer bypassed the gold-chased panels, built to mask the massive, geared chains and windlass that worked the tower’s grand portal. His satchel slung like a knapsack, he knelt by an inset trapdoor and paused, apparently overcome by reverie; in fact, his mind sharpened in search and coursed outward, beyond Athera’s cloud layer and into deep vacuum through which the stars drifted like lamps.

      But the far distant spirit of the colleague who journeyed to study the Mistwraith’s origin returned no response; nor had for an uneasy score of months.

      With Lysaer extending his influence into Tysan, the peace could scarcely last. Time to reclaim the cursed princes from the Mistwraith’s geas was growing sorrowfully short.

      Raked by a shiver, Sethvir aroused, recalled to those troubles close at hand. A ring-pull lifted to his touch; defence wards dissolved and the heavy stone rose to a stir of moving counterweights. The chamber’s miasma of aged cedar and wool gave way to the draught that welled up, spiked like a storm-breeze with ozone. A stair shaft cut downward into cold dark, limned like dust on ebony by the silver-blue glimmer of the power focus set into the dungeon below.

      Sethvir secured the trapdoor behind him and descended. Daybreak was nigh, its song plain to read in the soft, bursting static of the earth lane’s magnetic signature. Althain’s Warden stepped off the landing. He crossed a concave depression paved with lightless black onyx, then the focus itself, of concentric circles over-scribed in Paravian runes, mapped out in pearlescent phosphor. Tingled by the unshielded play of elemental forces, he positioned himself at the pattern’s centre. His feet rested on the apex of a looping star interlace that met in a nexus of five lines.

      He closed his eyes, gripped his satchel and waited.

      Outside the tower, sunrise touched light through the mists.

      A flux of wild energy crested along the lane, and the focus in the cellar floor responded, crackling to incandescent white. The moment sang into a chord of suspension, laced about with dire powers.

      Then the dawn sun-surge peaked and passed. The rune circles shimmered to quiescence, and the Warden of Althain was gone. Air displaced by his departure eddied over gargoyle cornices and sighed to final stillness through attrition.

      Relocated three hundred and eighty leagues to the southeast, Sethvir opened his eyes. Through a lingering shudder of reaction, he sucked in a breath dank as fog off a retting pond with the taint of mildew and mould. He wrinkled his nose. ‘I’d forgotten how Meth Isle smelled.’

      ‘That’s possible?’ His host, the master spellbinder Verrain, stood in straight quiet like a cat-tail, furled against the damp in a mud-splashed, brown frieze cloak. ‘I wasn’t sure, I’ve been here so long.’ Full lips that once had wrung sighs from Daenfal’s fairest maidens crooked in humourless irony. ‘Welcome to the bogs of Mirthlvain.’

      Sethvir gave his spinning senses a moment more to settle, then stepped off the lichened patterns of a lane focus centuries older than the one at Althain Tower. Gilded with flickers from the rushlight by the doorway, he gripped the wrists of the apprentice mage, who had stood guard over the dread spawn of Mirthlvain for more years than any soul deserved.

      ‘You have tea?’ asked the Fellowship sorcerer.

      His anxious note caused Verrain to grin. ‘My cupboards are stocked.’ He led off up a brick stair, hollowed by moisture and footfalls. ‘The others await you above.’

      The pair climbed in darkness alive with the tick and splash of condensation. From some bleak chamber down a corridor, a caged thing chittered and screeled; the echoes cut at the nerves, caused the hair of warmblooded listeners to prickle and stab erect.

      ‘Karth-eels?’ Sethvir asked.

      ‘A breeding pair.’ Verrain unbarred an upper doorway to a squeal of rusted hinges. He retrieved a staff of grey ash, while the spill of filtered daylight traced over knuckles left scarred by bites, and claws, and fell scratchings. ‘A new mutation, I fear.’

      ‘Hardly fresh,’ Sethvir murmured, ‘if these ones you’ve caught are amphibious, with fangs and webbed feet as well as the usual venomed spines.’

      Verrain glanced aside in surprise, his eyes so bleak they looked lightless. ‘You’ve seen footed spawnings before this?’

      ‘Actually, yes. But not for five thousand years.’ In disquiet thought, the sorcerer hitched at the strap of his satchel. ‘Certainly none since the hate-wraiths who caused the aberrations were prisoned in Rockfell pit.’

      ‘The records in the library don’t list those.’ Verrain ducked to traverse the peculiar, low arches of a connecting hall. One of Meth Isle fortress’s many cats streaked past as he flung back the door to another stairway.

      ‘No. They wouldn’t.’ Moved to an airy shift of subject, Sethvir said, ‘There’s a most urgent reason why we chose to meet here for the equinox.’

      The light strengthened with the climb, warmed to buttery, cloud-hazed sunshine. This far east, the morning was already several hours gone. Windows battened under diamond-meshed grilles opened onto Meth Isle fortress’s vista of slate roofs and terracotta chimneys, tufted under yellow moss and fungus. Tiled gutters with gargoyle spouts loured over a lakeshore scummed with lily pads and beyond them, darker, deeper waters rippled and scaled silver with wind. Mirthlvain’s landscape of steaming mires loomed in the distance, an imprinted silhouette of marsh maple and cypress cobwebbed with trailing, tattered moss.

      But the inside air now carried welcoming heat and a perfume of clean burning birch. An orange tabby bounded across the landing to weave against Verrain’s shins. He crossed a marble antechamber inhabited by beetles in lichened corners and led into the grand hall beyond.

      Past the braced doors, lofty hammerbeamed ceilings hung splotched acid green from the damp. A black iron cauldron steamed on the hob, and there Sethvir’s host gestured with the flick of a dimple on each cheek. ‘Your tea water. Sufficient to last out the day, I should hope.’

      The sorcerer returned a pleased grin, then hastened on to greet the two colleagues who waited, already seated. Other carved chairs with upholstery felted with cat hair sat empty before the stone gryphons that fashioned the table’s massive pedestal.

      A white and tortoiseshell tom poured itself from Asandir’s lap as he arose. ‘Sethvir! Come sit. How long has it been since you remembered to eat?’ Tall, windburned, worn lean from travel, he made room for Althain’s Warden, in the process displacing a sleepy kitten.

      The black-clad sorcerer opposite hunched over a plate of smoked fish and scones, his mouth too full for speech. But the raven perched on his shoulder swivelled beady jet eyes and croaked.

      ‘Hello to you too, little brother.’ Sethvir dumped his satchel on the floor and sat, his diffuse gaze no longer bemused, but trained in sharp inquiry upon the quieter of his two colleagues.

      Traithe stayed riveted on his food. His wide-brimmed black hat with its tarnished silver band hung from the knurl on his chair arm. The caped sable mantle he still wore failed to mask the tender movements left over from crippling injuries; in the hour of the Mistwraith’s first invasion,