Thunderclouds once again drifted over Derelzfjord, and the water beneath the ice seethed and churned. The wind raged, drying the reddish cliffs and scattering among them the white snow-dust, raising blizzards and making them swirl over the mountain trails. Somewhere high above, where the sullen sky pressed down upon the sharp and unreachable peaks of the Olmaer range, black vapors billowed and dark figures darted about—whether birds or bat-like creatures the size of condors, no one could tell.

  The monks of the monastery, standing on a barren rocky ledge, had not gone into the southern mountains for many days, mortally afraid of what came from there. They told legends of evil deities that had risen from the depths of Gehenna to build a stronghold for war against humankind; that fiery rivers flowed at the summit, and dragons had been reborn in the caves at the top of the world. But these were only rumors, no more frequent than any other local tales. What the inhabitants of Tornir’s temple truly feared were the two strangers in dark cloaks, who often came down from the mountains, spoke only with Zaruok, and always at night, vanishing again by dawn into the misty labyrinth of cliffs above Derelzfjord.

  Some believed them to be angels, others demons. A few had grown accustomed to their visits, since Zaruok himself received them, and many understood they were simply men. However, the monks’ view of them mattered little to the visitors themselves. Their concern was only for the infant and his mother, secluded in a cell by the temple.

  On this bleak February evening, the two cloaked men appeared once more at the pass and descended silently, like phantoms, along the path leading to the main gates. The monks on watch silently stepped aside. They knew these strangers well, and knew also that they had free passage within the walls. The temple greeted them with unfriendly silence: the hour was late, the weather cold and damp, and the monastery’s dwellers kept indoors. The wind whistled, howled, and strained as if to tear up the spindly trees in the garden by their roots, yet even over its roar, one of the strangers heard the whispered complaint of a guard:

  "I don’t like these visits… Oh, I don’t. Seven times already this winter, and for what?"

  The visitors’ faces were hidden by their hoods, but both knew the other was smiling.

  "Not good to frighten them," Geonar said as he climbed the steps to the temple doors. "We don’t yet know what help these monks might give us. Older fighters and spellcasters may be useful in the army, don’t you think?"

  "When the time comes to settle the matter of raising troops and setting the date of the offensive, we’ll ask the prior," Dalid replied quietly. "You’re right, at close quarters they might serve us well, a worthy counter to all of Saelin’s ironmongery. Just as in the defense of Mainor, remember? By the way, we should start thinking of the summer campaign. The construction is almost finished, and it’s time to gather the main forces."

  "Then, after we return, a war council. When does Hugo come back from Arctarium?"

  "Soon… and I hope he’s succeeded. It would be most convenient if the revolution in Vaimar broke out just when Jake Farian and his army are aiding us in liberating Aktida. If he loses his own crown, he’ll have no time to covet the throne in Mainor."

  "I think so too," agreed Geonar. "Will the Asternians stay with Ringus?"

  "Not unlikely. It will be useful to have Telorand as an agent in Arctarium."

  Dalid knocked and entered without waiting for a reply. Inside the warm hall, he shed his cloak; Geonar followed suit. A minute later, Zaruok appeared, and the smile of a gracious host instantly fled his face when he saw the guests.

  "Ah… You’ve come about the boy?" he asked tonelessly, praying inwardly they would simply turn and leave.

  "Of course," Geonar confirmed. "Is he well? And Lady Valena? No incidents?"

  "None," Zaruok reported darkly.

  "Good," Dalid smiled. "Good for you… and for us. Tell me, are they still awake?"

  "Well…" The prior hesitated. "In fact, your arrival is rather ill-timed… evening prayer…"

  "We’re always ill-timed," Dalid waved tiredly. "Enough, Zaruok. Why do you so stubbornly refuse cooperation? This temple has been the embodiment of tradition and constancy for two thousand years, but times are changing. You cannot remain outside history much longer."

  "Perhaps," the prior answered proudly, "but until that moment comes, we shall remain true to the fathers’ covenants—thanks to which the Temple of Tornir still stands!"

  "Our philosophies differ," Geonar sighed, smiling conciliatorily.

  "That’s why you never became monks here!" Zaruok retorted, descending toward the dormitories.

  "You’ll never out-argue him," Dalid whispered with a smile at the prior’s back.

  "He grows bolder," Geonar murmured in return. "Perhaps that’s for the best?"

  For the young dwellers of the temple, mostly orphans and foundlings, it was already bedtime, broken only by the six o’clock morning bell. For now, the children slept, unaware of what was happening around them. Zaruok slipped among the beds, passed several rooms, and at last reached a cell at the far end of the dormitory wing. Quietly, he opened the door.

  A thin ray of lamplight in his hand glided into the cell, illuminating the bed and the sleeping child wrapped in blankets. His mother was absent. Dalid drew a deep breath, gazing at the serene face of the heir, Prince Elliar, and lingered for several minutes, recalling once again the face of King Emerlun, as he had last seen it—the day before the Battle of Boreain, where the king had fallen. The boy resembled him greatly; perhaps one might even say that the royal blood ran stronger in him than in his father. What that might bring—time would tell, Dalid thought.

  "And where is Lady Valena?" he asked, carefully closing the door.

  "At prayer," the prior said grimly. "She should return soon."

  "Excellent. We’ll wait."

  Ten minutes later, as they sat in the hall chatting idly in Zaruok’s absence, the former queen of Aktida emerged from the temple’s main hall.

  Dalid and Geonar rose to meet her. She gave them a curt nod as she approached—she knew well who they were and why they had come. Dalid sighed again, furtively, at the sight of this woman—strong, yet deathly weary and worn, aged a good decade in the last year and a half. Her hair was streaked with gray, her face lined with wrinkles; only her eyes shone with the same clarity and confidence as in the spring of 1453, when King Emerlun had first met her, and loved her at first sight. Lady Valena remained Lady Valena: widow of the King of Aktida and mother of its prince, even after sinking to the depths, rising abruptly to the peaks of society, enduring a terrifying autumn and dreadful winter in a besieged city, giving birth to her firstborn and fleeing across the land with him away from the dreadful city of Mainor, away from the husband she had never truly loved, away from war and death. And even here, locked in this remote corner of the world where only mountain visitors brought news, news she devoured word by word—Valena was still a queen. Not by birth, but by destiny.

  "Dalid," she breathed, reaching out her hand automatically for a kiss. "Geonar. Well, tell me—how is it? You’ve been gone three weeks now… I’m so tired of waiting…"

  "Do not give up, Your Majesty," Dalid said calmly, meeting her eyes. "The most important thing is to endure. All will be well, I promise. The Fortress has reached the stage where it can be defended from any external attack. Soon envoys from all provinces of Vaimar will arrive, bringing troops—we are gathering strength."

  "And the offensive? When?"

  "Awaiting the signal," Geonar said grimly. "In truth, the final decision lies with the man who is now away on a special mission somewhere in the north, but should contact us from Harkon at the start of spring. Considering the time it will take for the dispatch to reach us, I think the offensive will begin no later than May. We will certainly notify you of the exact date, but first we must assess our strength and prepare the precise plan of campaign…"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  "I’ll be waiting," she nodded. "Though honestly, I’m running out of strength… I’m tired of being shut away. I want this all to end, to stop trembling in fear that the Empire will break through Vaimar’s borders and come here. I want only one thing: safety for Elliar."

  "Hold fast," Dalid shook his head. "That is all I can advise."

  "Take us with you!" she suddenly demanded. "Bring us to the Fortress!"

  "You know full well, Your Majesty, that this is impossible. I am powerless against the prior. Here, Zaruok rules, and he, too, cares first and foremost for you. In some ways, I agree with him. It is safer here than in the Fortress—believe me."

  Valena gathered her courage—and kept silent for a while.

  "Any news from Aktida?" she asked at last, her voice hollow.

  "Our agents in Mainor have managed to create a stable communication channel between districts," Geonar replied. "The Institute of Magic is under Saelin’s control, so we can’t send messages to other cities, but dispatches reliably arrive every two weeks in Petista, then to the border, and from there they’re passed at the same interval by trusted couriers into Vaimar. We act at our own risk and can’t guarantee full protection from disinformation… yet so far the channel hasn’t failed. Different groups work in different cities with a strict system of secrecy; only minor operatives have been caught, those who knew the bare minimum and could not lead the enemy to the top of the network."

  "Good… Is Siegfried working with you, too?"

  "He is trying," Dalid allowed himself a grin. "Saelin is convinced old Maclevirr has sold himself to him and is hunting underground agents for him. In reality, it’s the opposite: the Empire’s Secret Chancellery is giving our agents extra protection and feeding Saelin’s lackeys carefully crafted lies. The fact is, in all Mainor there isn’t a single politician with a brain besides Saelin and Cassander, and they don’t have time to watch everything."

  Valena sighed in relief.

  "Thank you," she said softly. "Come more often, I beg you… Well, I’d love to talk longer, but I must go watch the baby. Good luck. I believe in you, I believe it will work."

  Dalid smiled and nodded farewell as she turned and walked toward the dormitory wing. From the prayer hall, Zaruok appeared.

  "Speaking of boys," Dalid said to him genially, "perhaps we might go to the dormitories once more? I’d like to see the older ones…"

  "What, are you lacking heirs of Aktida’s throne?" the prior said sourly.

  "No," Dalid replied, flashing the abbot a broad, dreamy smile. "What we lack is cannon fodder… A joke," he added quickly, noticing the change on Zaruok’s face.

  ***

  They left fairly quickly this time, without showering the prior with questions and proposals, and for that, he even forced a smile as he escorted them to the doors. Zaruok sighed with relief once the strangers vanished into the windy gloom of fleeting winter twilight, and then hurried back to the hall where prayer and hymn-singing still continued.

  And none of the monastery’s inhabitants noticed the woman in a fur cloak slipping out of the dormitory, a bundle of blankets clutched tightly in her arms, and a pack slung over her shoulder. She stole to the doors, eased them open, and slipped into the courtyard.

  It was cold here, but Valena was not deterred: if anything, the chill added to her stubbornness and resolve. She quickly skirted the main building, hugging the wall so the sentries on the outer fence would not see her, crept toward the left wing, and in the night’s darkness reached an unlit postern gate in the eastern wall. She had the keys—she often left the monastery for walks in the surrounding lands, admiring the harsh nature of Vaimar, a land she had never before visited.

  Here, the wind howled and shrieked, threatening to knock her off her feet. She whispered a familiar lullaby to Elliar, who opened his little eyes and burst into frightened cries. The prince calmed when he saw her face above the blankets; Valena winked at him and began singing again—indistinct words, improvised on the spot—while hiding behind a rock near the wall, peering into the darkness. With difficulty, she discerned two shadowy figures, carrying a dim lantern, moving among the cliffs.

  Then she followed—hurriedly, stumbling over stones, all the while crooning the lullaby and afraid of losing sight of the tiny spark of the lantern in the hand of one of the travelers. At one point, she looked back, and her heart froze at the dizzying height. From here, Derelzfjord looked like a white patch the size of a palm, and the monastery where she had spent the last four months was a gray blot among the brown scatter of rocks. Valena turned away, pressed her lips tight, and climbed upward along the steep slope, clutching her son close. The trail was off to the side, but Valena feared being discovered too soon. She knew Dalid and Geonar would never allow her to go with them. She had prepared for the journey, food and water in her pack, though she did not know how long the road ahead might be.

  At last, looking upward, she saw the lantern vanish into a maze of rocks, then flicker for a moment and go out beside a black patch on the gray slope. Beyond, distant peaks loomed, sharp as pyramids, their summits wrapped in clouds. Never before had Valena ventured so far. She carefully emerged from the stones onto the mountain path, where the wind had not yet erased the tracks. She rushed forward, weaving among the rocks, tracing the winding way that led after the travelers.

  By the time she reached the cave, night had fully descended over the fjord, and the mountains lay in impenetrable, starless darkness. But the black maw of the tunnel pierced through the slope, and on the other side, a patch of sky glimmered like a bright scrap of cloth. There was no wind within, and the queen passed through calmly, rocking her son with weary arms as he blinked and prepared once again to cry.

  From the tunnel’s exit, the path stretched into a valley hemmed in by slopes and ringed with jagged, sharp boulders. The trail crossed it, disappearing into the labyrinth of mountain passes and roads that led farther south, deeper into the range, to where, among immovable stone monoliths, tiny tongues of flame already flickered…

  These were the forges where the rebels forged their weapons.

  The travelers’ silhouettes flashed at the far end of the valley and dissolved into the gloom. Then Valena dared to leave her hiding place. No wind blew here, and she gave thanks to Aktos for this mercy, then hurried forward. In a short while, she covered thirty yards, passing beneath jagged rocks looming over the path like guardians of a round hollow. On the surrounding slopes lay huge black boulders. It was like giants, bored atop their cloud-shrouded peaks, had cast them down. Among this silent kingdom of stone, Valena felt uneasy.

  She crossed the valley and climbed to a new pass, where the mountains pressed so close they nearly scraped against each other’s flanks. The two phantoms descending a winding trail around one slope were hard to make out. Their lantern seemed an even smaller point of light, though it remained still, as the men had paused to rest. Valena did not try to follow their movements. Sitting on a rock, slipping off her pack, and absentmindedly singing to Elliar, she gazed in awe at the view that gradually unfolded before her.

  Here, the mountains of the Olmaer range opened out, forming an almost perfect ring several miles across, at its center a dizzying chasm whose bottom was lost in gloom. Near the far side of the ring rose a squat mountain shaped like a truncated cone, and on its flat summit loomed a colossal dark structure. On the encircling heights stood watchtowers, fires burned everywhere, and in their glow the whole marvel could be seen.

  Valena nursed Elliar and ate a little herself, staring at this human creation, built in but a year by the titanic labor of thousands, revealed now by the shapes of cliffs and slopes. It was the Mountain Fortress of the rebels. The men ahead were in no hurry to move on either—they too rested, for crossing the passes was hard even for them.

  Then the two travelers took a detour along the path that wound around the mountain slopes, skirting the edges of gorges. Valena followed, trying to stay in the shadows, when suddenly something made her turn around. And she saw it, and recoiled in fright, for at the top, on the rim of the ring, a massive figure appeared, one she could hardly mistake for anything else. One could only envy Zaruok’s persistence, for he was so determined to protect those entrusted to him. Valena ran, breathless, toward a heap of rocks to the right of the road, hid behind them, pressed her son tightly to herself, and continued to sing a lullaby in a whisper. The slightest sob could give her away.

  Zaruok was descending, gasping for breath, and stopped only for a few seconds, also spellbound by the sight lit by torchlight. Then he scurried down the road, passed very close to the queen’s hiding place, and hurried on, trying to catch up with the two men, though they had long since vanished somewhere among the mountains. The prior’s hands trembled with indignation.

  He went on, sometimes breaking into a light run, but quickly tiring and having to rest for long moments, crouching on snow-dusted stones. The mountains seemed endless, the road stretched ever onward, winding in impossible loops around the slopes. Hours had passed; it was the middle of the night, and the abbot of the temple of Tornir had not yet covered even half the way. He did not suspect that Valena with Elliar were following right behind him, moving from stone to stone. Now the roles had reversed, and the woman preferred to keep a safe distance behind.

  And so they went, guided by the dim light of Dalid and Geonar’s lantern, their only beacon in this stony, grim hell where many travelers had already lost their way and met their end at the bottom of a ravine, or beneath an avalanche suddenly sliding down the slope. The night dragged on, minutes turned into hours of impenetrable darkness, and quite a lot of them had passed since the prior left the temple.

  The Fortress was drawing near.

  Already one could see, when the path reached the edge of the ring, that the bastion on the flat mountain was only part of a huge complex, whose towers spread behind the mountain ridge, their very foundations merging with the rock, becoming an inseparable part of it. Into the sky rose plumes of smoke from factories, and beneath them lay barracks, training grounds and drill fields, testing ranges, warehouses and hangars for war machines. At the bottom of the basin in the center of the ring stood forges, mines, and laboratories where work was underway on weapons capable of confronting Tepei-Kuon.

  The sky was lightening, gray patches of dawn peeking through the leaden clouds. Zaruok was already close, and as he climbed the mountain path toward the piles of boulders beyond which the forged gates loomed, he was able to appreciate the scale of the force gathered here. Enormous basalt towers rose a hundred feet high, between them gray walls with sharp battlements, harpies flickered in the heights, and the gates stood silent, the silence itself ominous in the predawn gloom.

  From within came a muffled roar. Zaruok froze before the colossal structure, muttering prayers in a frenzy. He guessed they had already spotted him and waited. At last, a sentry appeared on the wall and calmly asked:

  "Your name and password?"

  "I am Zaruok, prior of the temple of Tornir," the priest stammered nervously. "I must speak with Lord Dalid Eyring!"