Barrenlands

by Doranna Durgin

Chapter 1

Spring in Kurtane was as it had always been. The courtyards and gardens were awash in green, the white flagstone pathways sluiced clean by rain. This day was pleasantly cool, with just the faintest of breezes, barely enough to stir the fronds of the vine-draped arches shaping the traffic-ways of the palace yards. The odor of the stables was barely noticeable beneath the sweet scents of carefully tended flower beds. The kind of day to be savored.

Ehren sat on a comfortable wooden bench in the midst of it all and wondered when it had ceased to feel like home.

Not that it had ever been his home, as much time as he had spent here. But there had been a time when he fit. Now, the flirting young nobles strolling these famous walkways gave him glances of polite disregard instead of respect. His dark grey gaze was hard in return, and they invariably contrived to forget they'd been looking at him at all.

But his worst offense, Ehren knew, was something he could do nothing about.

King Rodar's court was a young court; his Guard consisted of young men and women. Most of Benlan's sworn had been killed in the fight that took the king himself, a fight Ehren had missed. Now the faint lines beside his grey eyes, the hardened quality of his face, the number and age of the scars he carried-all spoke of a maturity that most of Rodar's sycophants lacked.

Their problem. His was to figure out why Varien had summoned him. Had summoned him an hour ago, in fact. Most of that time Ehren had spent on this bench, his arms spread along the delicate curving back of the seat, his leg crossed ankle over knee, his broad shoulders relaxed against the wood. Watching Rodar's court, marking the new faces as he had not had a chance to do while scouring the coastal villages for remnants of the faction that had caused Benlan's death. Wondering why the court wizard had need of him, when their paths had scarcely crossed before.

Well, that was perhaps not strictly true. They had seen enough of each other. They had simply never had any use for one another.

Speculation got him nowhere. He'd waited long enough. Ehren uncrossed his leg and let the foot fall to the ground with a thump, rising to stretch as though there weren't three sets of eyes on him-at least two of which most certainly thought they were unobserved. He settled his sword belt a little lower as it slanted across his hips, and moved with unconcerned strides into the first of the open archways that preceded the palace proper. There were seven of them, placed closer and closer together until they merged into the building. At the last two were guards; in Rodar's new court they were more decorative, matched in feature and beauty, than functional. Ehren nodded at them and walked on.

He could hear them behind him, the hesitant step of boot on stone, as they struggled with the decision-call him back or let him go? By custom, he should have stopped and stated his business.

But these men were from the Kurtane Ready Troops-the Reds-and Ehren was ranking King's Guard. No voices were raised. Ehren smiled a tight, private smile, and turned down the airy hall that led to Varien's suites. He passed no less than three work crews that were, as far as he could tell, gilding perfectly good stained wooden crown work.

Changes. Inevitable. He shook his head; he couldn't help it. It seemed to him that his steps echoed too loudly as he came to the open door of Varien's anteroom. He stood in it and waited.

Varien's apprentice measured a small quantity of dried leaves on a tiny scale, engrossed. When she noticed Ehren, she fumbled her weights. The scale platform jerked; the dried matter spilled over her blotter-covered desk. She bit her lip, glancing over her shoulder to the closed door behind which her master waited. "We were expecting you earlier," she said, her voice low.

"What made you do that?" He leaned against the door frame and rested one relaxed wrist over the stirrup hilt of his sword. She was in mid-adolescence, blonde and light-boned, and looked small among the plain but heavy furnishings of the room.

"Why . . ." she bit her lip again and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "He sent for you over an hour ago."

"Yes," he agreed. "And I'm here. But I've never jumped at his bidding."

She stared at him, aghast.

"You're new, aren't you?" Ehren asked. New, young, and completely intimidated. "He does go through apprentices quickly. Don't worry about it-you just do what you have to when the time comes."

She dropped her gaze to the spilled plant matter. "I'm here to learn from a master," she said resolutely. "This is the opportunity of a lifetime. You do Master Varien a great disservice to suggest otherwise."

He smiled. "Do you want to tell him I'm here, or shall I just walk in?"

"I'm sure he already knows you've arrived." But she went to the door and knocked quietly anyway.

The response was muffled; Ehren couldn't make out the words. She winced at it, then smoothed her features and pushed open the door, stepping back and giving a slight curtsy as Ehren passed. He paused in the doorway, very close to her. "Don't take it all so seriously," he told the top of her bowed head. When she lifted her eyes, surprised, he gave her his best rakish smile, the one that so angered the First Level ministers when it was his only response to one of their demands. Her surprise turned to a sudden shy smile of response, and he left her standing there, looking after him.

He'd never known a wizard as neat and organized as this one. Of course, the actual workroom was something he'd never seen, but this office was meticulously appointed, from the thick carpeting to the matching seat cushion on the desk chair to the distinct walnut grain of each piece of furniture. It was a place he'd been but half a dozen times, and one he meant to avoid in the future.

Varien stood by one of the heavily curtained windows, his hands clasped behind his back. His knuckles, Ehren noticed, were white. Like everyone else in Rodar's court, his hair was nearly shorn-a new style for the wizard, but one that went far toward hiding the grey in his dark blond hair. It was often difficult to remember that the wizard was in his ninth decade, when he looked only ten years older than Ehren's thirty-three years. Ehren stopped before the dark wood of the substantial table that stood between them, and said congenially, "What can I do for you?"

Varien turned abruptly. "You can start by not ignoring my summons," he said, biting the words off as precisely as he'd decorated the room.

There were many things to say to that. I'm not yours to command was the most polite of the replies that sprung to mind. So Ehren said nothing. After a moment he raised an eyebrow, and put the conversation back in Varien's hands.

The wizard turned back to the window. He was a small man, but not one Ehren took lightly, despite the understated subtleties of his magics. When he looked at Ehren again, his expression indicated that their first exchange had been dismissed. "Benlan has been dead a year now."

"Nearly."

"And you have been given the freedom, since his death, to track down those responsible for it. I am given to understand you've had no success."

"That depends on your definition of success," Ehren said. A clear lead to a dozen conspirators, scattered throughout the coastal cities, questioned and formally executed. And the trail? The trail was so dead that he knew he'd looked in the wrong direction from the start, been led in the wrong direction. His return was not an admission of failure. After a year, someone here was bound to figure they were safe, let down their guard . . . and here he was, to pick up the trail anew.

"My definition of success is the same as anybody else's," Varien said with a smile, but did not elaborate. "The point is, your current chances of discovering who had Benlan killed are remote. And there are other things that need to be done, things more crucial to the security of Rodar's rule."

Ehren pulled out a chair, invited himself to sit, and rested his forearms on the table. "As you said, I've been away. So you'll excuse me if I'm more blunt than you're used to." He paused, leaned forward, and said, "Why am I here? This conversation is not yours to hold."

Varien's laugh was short. "Whose, then?"

"The Guard answers to the king himself, as well you know."

"Rodar is seventeen years old." Varien seated himself opposite Ehren, placing a small silver ring between them. It had been Benlan's, a token from Queen Wilna. She hadn't wanted it back. She hadn't wanted anything to do with Ehren, or the court. She was gone, and only rumors told where.

Varien said nothing of the ring, but regarded Ehren with his head tilted to one side, considering. "You know as well as I that our young king is slow to maturity. He yet plays with his powers, delighting in his effect on the most shallow aspects of this court. That Solvany remains stable is a testament to Benlan's ministers. If it seems to you I have stepped out of place, well . . . perhaps it is so. But often these days, it is how things are accomplished in Kurtane."

Ehren remained silent at first, measuring the expression on Varien's face and discovering its sincerity somehow grating. That a wizard should have even the faintest hint of decision-making power settled ill with him. As far as he was concerned, Varien's only official duty requiring initiative and independence was the handling of Solvany's share of maintenance spells on the Barrenlands. The other First Levels-the Minister of Diplomacy, the High Secretary, and the Military Commander-had plenty of influence over any monarch's rule; when banded together, few were the kings and queens who would-or could-go against them. But the wizards had always been held apart. Most reckoned a wizard of the Upper Levels had enough power already. Ehren was among them.

He picked up the ring Varien had placed between them, a smallish ring set with a beveled emerald and a band of intertwining ivy. A woman's ring. It had always looked like it belonged with Benlan, anyway, right along with Wilna's love. And now, it somehow connected to whatever Varien had to say. Ehren placed it back on the table. "So," he said. "There are other things more crucial to Solvany than punishing the conspirators who killed her king. Enlighten me."

"I'm surprised to find it necessary. You, after all, are the one who has been traveling through the land. Surely you have observed the unrest, the dissatisfaction with Rodar's rule-such as it is. Surely you have heard Dannel's name come up, again and again."

Unrest, indeed-Ehren had fended off three attempts to kill him on the way home. He snorted. "There are always dissatisfied voices when something changes. It happens every time one of the First Level ministers is replaced. It happened when you replaced Coirra, if you remember."

"I do," Varien said. "But I'm surprised that you do. You can't even have been born."

"I wasn't." Ehren let the words sit there a moment, making their point. Then he said, "Dannel is gone. Benlan talked of his older brother often enough; the man wasn't suited to rule, even before he fell in love with a T'ieran daughter and ran off to who-knows-where. He won't be coming back to snatch the throne away from Rodar."

"And his children?"

Ehren snorted again, showing a little more derision this time. "That's what this is all about? You're worried Dannel's children might make some sort of play for the throne?"

Varien's eyes narrowed. "There will be no better opportunity."

"Granted. A good reason for all Rodar's ministers to be prepared with their best rhetoric. Supposing these hypothetical children should appear."

"We have no intention of waiting for them to appear," Varien snapped.

Finally, then, here was some of the temperament Ehren knew to be Varien's. He gave the wizard an even smile. "Most of the Guard is unblooded. Half of them haven't spent three nights in a row under the stars. If you want to waste time and Guards looking for Dannel, you might as well get some training done while you're at it. Which brings me back to my original question-why am I here?"

Varien didn't answer right away; he seemed to be tucking his temper away. Ehren found his eyes narrowing at the satisfaction that found its way to the wizard's soft features. Varien said, "You will be doing the searching, Ehren."

While Benlan's killers still live? While the conspirators who had seen to the death of half his fellow Guards, his friends, still gloated over that victory? His jaw set hard; he deliberately had to relax, to force a calmness-of sorts-into his voice. "If you're concerned about the king's safety, this is where I need to be. If those First Level fools hadn't sent me off on a trivial errand last spring, Benlan might yet be alive." Ehren's bitter voice held accusation. "Do you want to make the same mistake again?"

"I've heard you say this before," Varien said coolly. "Do you really think your presence would have made the difference, simply because Benlan considered you friend? And do you really think the ministers care to deal with you, ever reminding them of the possible truth behind your words? Do you think the new Guard is eager to have you here, breathing over their shoulders and reminding them they have no experience?"

"To the lowest Hell with what they want," Ehren said. "The important thing is the safety of the king."

"It will be hard to keep the king safe if his ranks are in disruption," Varien said. "Your very appearance reminds everyone who sees you that you were Benlan's man. And there are plenty who will remember how difficult you were, even then. Who do remember, and don't want you here."

Difficult? Perhaps. He did what was necessary to keep Benlan safe. Ehren sat back in the stout chair, holding Varien's gaze. "Difficult will be as nothing, if you continue talking about sending me on another fool's mission while Benlan's killers run loose and Rodar turns this throne into an adolescent fantasy."

"It's been a year, Ehren!" Varien stood and leaned over the table. "What do you suppose that looks like? A year, and you're still searching? You're already on a fool's mission!" He took a deep breath and straightened, resting his hands lightly on the back of a chair. "Frankly, you don't have much choice. There are plenty of First and Second Level people who see you as a threat right now-a disruption that Rodar's rule is not capable of handling. Don't underestimate the lethal dangers in those scheming Levels-forced resignation is the least of what you're facing. I hope I make myself clear."

So that's how it was. Take this assignment, and lose his chance to track down the conspiracy-or refuse it, and lose everything. Ehren stayed where he was, leaning back in the big chair, eyeing Varien, barely aware that his jaw was set. "Are these your words?"

"They're my words, yes. But they come from the mouths of others as well. In fact, it was my idea to give you this last chore. You'll be gone some while, and perhaps by the time you return, things will have settled. Consider this before you refuse us."

He'd consider it, all right. He'd consider the fact that he'd never judged Varien a man to do something that benefited only one person, unless Varien was that person. If searching for Dannel was Varien's idea, there was more to it than one last face-saving assignment for Benlan's favorite Guard.

Which, perhaps, was reason enough to do it. How else to discover what the wizard was up to? Besides, once he was through, he could return here and pick up where he left off. Someone here in Kurtane was frightened enough of him to drive him out, and that was the best lead he'd had in months.

Ehren leaned forward, picked up the ring, and studied its flawless emerald. "Tell me about the ring," he said.

* * * * *

"Lain-ieee!"

"Not now, Shette." Laine frowned at the slight shimmer of the ground in front of him, barely discernible in the morning light. It wasn't Shette's fault she couldn't see it, but her timing was characteristically awful.

The caravan stretched out behind Laine, several dozen uninspiring but sturdy wagons carrying Therand goods bound for Solvany, via the bordering mountains of Loraka. They waited with an impatience that was almost palpable. It was his job to guide them through the magic of this tricky, hard-country route, and their hurry was of little concern to Laine when he felt something amiss before them.

The spells were several hundred years old, things that had been loosed during the same war that had wrought the lifeless, magic-made Barrenlands between Therand and Solvany. The Barrenlands made travel between the countries impossible; the spells made travel through the mountains perilous. But there would always be a market for fine Therand cloth goods and precision trade work in Solvany, just as Therand took in a steady supply of hardy northern breeding stock and quality wines from Solvany. Commerce always found a way.

Until recently, that way had been a triangular route along the Lorakan Trade Road-a slow and costly journey capped with tariffs. And then Ansgare had stumbled on to Laine, and his quick merchant's mind had divined a way to take advantage of the younger man's Sight.

When Laine's Sight happened upon a lurking spell-something that tripled a traveler's weight, or turned his boot soles to ice-slick uselessness-it was like an itch that couldn't be scratched, or spotting something out of the corner of his eye at night, and then watching it disappear when he tried to focus on it. Seeing through a spell took a careful balance of not looking too hard at any one thing while concentrating on all of it. Laine went about it patiently, and never took himself or the job too seriously.

"Lain-ieeee." Shette's voice, drawing out the last syllable of his name again in the way she knew he hated. This was her first trip further than the village closest to their family's mountainous pasture land, and patience was something she had yet to acquire when it came to waiting out his Sight. Or anything, for that matter.

"Not now, Shette," Laine said with a touch of irritation, eyeing the rutted road ahead and heeding the silent, disquieting voice that warned him there was magic tangling their way. The ground shimmered faintly, subtly. The route was only in its third year of use, and though Laine had come to recognize the flavor of the old Border War spells drifting through this region, this one-if it indeed was a spell-was new to him. Harder edged, it made some spot behind his eyes twitch, and gave him a cold, hard knot in his stomach. With his younger sister at the wagon behind him, he wasn't about to get careless. Slowly, he closed his left eye, the blue one, and after a moment switched and closed the right. The old habit seldom worked, but he couldn't help from giving it a try. A little concentration and he'd see the right of it-

Behind him, a mule grumbled, punctuating displeasure with an explosive snort. Shette gave an equally explosive sound of dismay. "He did that on purpose! You know he deliberately snorts all over me! Laine, why do I have to-"

"Shut up?" he finished, rounding on her where she stood by Spike, the near-side mule, in front of his small four-wheeled wagon. She was the picture of irritated sibling-irritated teenaged sibling at that. Shette's loose trousers were rolled up to the knee, her sandy hair tied off at the base of her neck. Her expression was graphic revulsion as she vigorously rubbed her shoulder off against the mule's lower neck. For its part, the mule did indeed wear a half-lidded expression of satisfaction. It had probably been as tired of Shette's whining as Laine. "If you're not quiet, we'll be here for the rest of the day. Do you want to be the one to explain that to Ansgare?"

Sometimes the five years between them seemed like a century.

Shette made a face, and pushed the mule's head away from her. Whenever Laine was out of the wagon, Shette stood with Spike, who often took advantage of her hesitant authority. His partner, Clang, was happy to follow Spike's lead.

Even now Spike flopped his jagged namesake of a mane back and forth to rid himself of a fly, and gained a sneaky foot in the doing of it. "Shette," Laine said, and his teeth ground together a little as he strode forward, caught the mule's lines under the animal's chin, and backed him the exact step he'd stolen, "you've got to watch him. If I can't trust you to keep him back, I'll swap you with Dajania-she doesn't let him pull anything. You can ride with Sevita."

"Laine, I don't want to ride in a whore wagon!" Shette said, truly horrified.

Her reaction was so satisfying Laine regained his normal good humor at once, and merely smiled down at her despite the threat of the spell tickling at his back.

"It's all your fault, anyway," she grumbled, seeming to remember that the women in question had actually been quite kind to her on this trip, and embarrassed by her condemnation. "There's nothing up there, and Spike knows it."

"Laine." A new voice, startling him from behind the wagon. Ansgare. Of course. Riding his big cat-footed pony, the merchant-turned-caravan owner never failed to take Laine by surprise once Shette got him distracted. "Seems we've been here quite a while."

Laine gave Shette a quick warning look and moved back behind the wagon with Ansgare; there was no room for Ansgare's little horse to make its way alongside the wagon to join them. On one side was a jut of granite that rose far above their heads, and the other was such a jumble of fallen rocks and tall grasses that riding it was the same as begging for a broken leg. It hadn't been easy, finding a decent route through the Loraka mountain chain.

Laine put his back to the rear panel of the wagon and gave Ansgare a shrug, rolling his long sleeves up around his biceps, where they were just a little too tight but much cooler. Even at twenty, Laine's was a casual approach to life, reflected by the frequent humor in his eyes. "Whole trip is going slow this time, Ansgare. Someone's been playing with these mountains. Loraka's turning all the apprentices loose to practice, I'll bet."

"It doesn't take this long to unscramble apprentice spells," Ansgare grumbled, rubbing a hand over his short, grey-shot beard. He glanced back over his shoulder. The view was blocked by Kalf's squat, solid wagon of fine Therand mercantiles, but Laine knew Ansgare was mentally placing the caravan's strongarms-Machara and her two men, Dimas and Kaeral. Likely they were spread evenly among the wagons, as was their pattern. When he turned back, it was with a shrug, as though, defenses set, he could afford to take Laine a little less seriously. "Loraka's never minded us here before. Take a drink, close your eyes a few minutes. See if it's still there."

"Have I ever been wrong?" Laine asked, more amused than offended.

"No, son, but Guides grant us, things change. It never was natural, you being able to See things with no training, and no call to magic."

"Natural, maybe not. But it's shown no signs of deserting me. Patience, Ansgare." Laine grinned at the man, knowing the merchant's thoughts well after two years together. "You're not carrying goods that spoil. You're just restless from winter."

"That's a certain fact. And so's this-your old Spike mule decided to move ahead without you."

"What?" Laine spun around to see the wagon creeping away from him. "Damn," he said, slapping a hand to his short sword. "Shette . . ."

Her rising voice grew clearly audible. "Spike, whoa, you stupid mule!" A loud grunt of effort, no doubt from a correction Spike didn't even notice. "Spike, would you-"

Laine scrambled alongside the wagon, stumbling on the stones there, as Shette's words stopped in a gasp, then escalated. "Spike, get back, get back, get-" Spike's alarmed snort overrode her, and Laine was just close enough to glimpse his sister over Clang's back when she screamed.

The quaver of resolving magic in front of her was all too clear. The path suddenly tracked left, through what had looked like solid stone, and the ruts Spike had been following phased to sparsely grass-edged rocks. Clang's foolishly floppy ears went back and he reared, nearly concealing the coalescing boil of darkness that appeared only a few feet away from Shette.

Laine slapped the beast's rump on his way by, with little hope of having any effect. "Stand, Clang! Stand, Spike!" He pulled out his sword, an unblooded thing with a sweeping basket hilt, and when he threw himself between Shette and the smoldering darkness, it seemed an insignificant weapon, indeed.

"Laine," Shette gasped, staring at the unknown that towered over them and tugging at his arm. "Laine, come on."

He shook her off. From behind, he heard Ansgare's bellow. "We're coming, Laine! Hold on!"

Machara, he hoped, and hoped fervently, as the darkness solidified in front of them, choosing form and texture. A dark beast, bristle-hided with ichor dripping from its short-muzzled mouth and reddish piggy eyes that seemed quite happy to see them. Shette snatched Laine's arm again, dragging him back; he didn't hesitate, but shoved her, as hard as he could, toward Spike, never taking his eyes off the oddly assembled beast before him.

Its batlike face bobbed up and down on a short neck; Laine took the gesture for uncertainty, as Ansgare and the three fighters clattered over the rocks behind him. But its lips drew back, an absurd parody of a grin, and-

"Duck, Laine!" Ansgare roared, so close to him that Laine flinched away, and so was caught only by the edges of the spittle aimed at his face.

"Sacred shit!" he yelped, swatting at the fierce burn along his upper arm and nearly dropping his sword.

Shette's scream of "Laine!" overlapped someone's "Watch it!" and Machara's light, commanding alto, shouting "Spread out!" The strongarms were a flurry of uncoordinated movement facing off a hunch-shouldered beast that appeared more amused than threatened by them. Laine ended up on the far left, his venom burns forgotten, on the balls of his feet and waiting for opportunity while the others baited the creature-but something was wrong with it all. Machara feinted at the thing when it had clearly been sizing up Dimas, and Ansgare was completely unaware when it turned on him, its face drawn up in the grimace of its spitting attack.

No time for words; Laine shoved his boss aside, bringing his sword across in a quick backhand sweep that cut deeply into the thing's neck. At that one instant, everyone focused on the creature where it was, and then just as quickly they were feinting at phantoms again.

They don't see it! Startled, Laine closed an eye, leaving himself open to attack-and there it was. While the bulk of the thing's body was the same to both Sight and sight, the head whipped around in two different patterns-the truth, and what his companions saw instead. Only Laine saw the reality within the illusion.

But Shette's rock pinged solidly enough off its hide, bouncing on the bony point of its crouching hip, an area protected from sword that it did not bother to defend with illusion.

"Be careful!" Laine shouted at her as she flung another rock, totally unaware when it lurched heavy shoulders around to face her; as far as she could see, it was still angling to reach Machara. Laine's first instinct was to go after it-but if he let it think it was unobserved, let it commit itself to attacking his little sister. . . . He swallowed hard, pulled himself up short, and joined the others, battering the empty air while he watched the true beast out of the corner of his eye. Certain it was unobserved, the beast gathered venom with each bob of its head, drew back its lips-

Laine whirled and brought all the momentum of the movement down through his arm as his sword connected with bone just behind the creature's skull. Shette jumped back, clearly surprised by the sudden flash of Laine's sword at nothing, at . . .

Something.

A handful of startled exclamations joined Shette's as the creature collapsed on itself. Its heavy skull thunked off the ground, nearly separated from its body, with Laine's sword imbedded in its neck and wrenched from his grasp.

Machara stared at the empty space she'd been so successfully engaging and said, "Well, I'll be damned."

For the moment, that seemed to be the general consensus. Shette ran to Laine and made fussing noises over his arm, which then, of course, started to hurt. Spike postured behind them, little half-rears of threat accompanied by the sharp tattoo of his front hooves against the ground.

"Never seen anything like that," Kaeral pronounced finally, still breathing heavily. He and Dimas had worked under Machara, guarding caravans, for many years longer than Laine had been guiding for Ansgare. Laine glared at the creature, hands on hips, panting. Something Kaeral had never seen. Wonderful.

"The thing had us completely bamboozled," Dimas said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"No," Ansgare said, crossing in front of Laine to jerk the short sword out of the thing's neck. He handed it to Laine, moving up close to look directly in his eyes. Looking, Laine knew, into eyes of two different colors. A black eye and a blue so dark you had to be this close to see the difference. "No," Ansgare repeated. "Not all of us."

* * * * *

He moved through the caverns from a viewpoint that seemed a little taller than normal, and he was happy and excited-and scared. He'd taken Jenorah from a life of ease and comfort, and together they were entering more than a cavern that led from one country to another. It led them into another life, a voluntary exile. He held the lantern up a little higher, and felt the soft touch of Jenorah's hand on his arm.

"Together," she said.

Dannel stopped, then, and put the lantern on the ground, turning to face her. She was a sturdy young woman, the best of Clan Grannor. Her long black hair was tied back, and her equally black eyes glinted in the wavering light of the lantern, looking at him with such love he felt himself nearly overcome. He put his hands alongside her face and smoothed her hair back, all the impossible wisps that had come loose during their wild ride to this place, through both borders and into the Barrenlands. She tilted her head back and looked into his eyes, and wry amusement gathered in her gaze, until it overflowed her eyes and came out in a laugh-and not one of those fake little court laughs, either. An infectious laugh that caught him up in its wake and played with them until they were breathless and clinging to one another.

"We did it," Jenorah said through a contented sigh. "For all of their stupidity, we managed this. And if we can do this, what is there that we cannot do?"

He drew her close and rested his cheek on the top of her head. "Nothing," he whispered. "Nothing at all."

 * * * * *

"Nothing," someone repeated, only with someone else's voice altogether. He was looking not at Jenorah, but at a man. Tall, dark-haired, intensely angry, and armed with plenty of blade. "Nothing should keep me from your side, and running errands for the Upper Levels least of all."

"Relax," he said, not feeling all that relaxed himself. He'd been about to discuss the day's plans with this man-this friend-but that would only make things worse, now. "Someone's playing games, pulling strings to prove they can. If we cut them off, we won't have a chance to follow the strings, will we, Ehren? Ehren?"

 * * * * *

"Ehren!" He cried the warning out of habit when the attack came, aching for the solid feel of his friend against his back, fierce and capable. The world filled with the sounds of fighting men-blades and shouts and death cries, the worst of those coming from his own throat as his body took cut after cut. Someone jerked his head back, put a blade against his throat-

* * * * *

Pain. He was choked with it, his body stiffened and jerking with someone else's death. It burned in his belly, his arm, his throat. Death, reaching for him-

"Laine!" Shette's annoyed voice, the not-so-gentle prod of her finger. "Wake up, Laine, you're doing it again!"

"Huh?" He jerked upright, nearly smacking his head on the bottom of the wagon, and let himself flop back to the ground again, dazed. Laine unclenched his fist, flattened it on top of his stomach and the phantom pain there. No blood. No.

A mule snorted on the other side of the wagon, a wet and unhappy sound. For a moment Laine stared at the darkness of the wagon slats overhead, his hand resting on his dry, whole torso, listening to the uneven patterns of gusty rain overhead.

Shette, her voice tinged with sisterly disgust, said, "You and your dreams. Between that and the rain, I don't know how we're supposed to get any sleep."

Laine's thoughts were far away, picking at the details of the death scene he'd just witnessed-Hell, been a part of. Out loud, he merely said a mild, "At least we trenched uphill." If they'd skipped it as Shette had wanted to, they'd be on wet ground right now.

When she spoke again, her voice had changed, grown tentative. "What do you see, Laine, in those dreams of yours? Mum and Da thought you'd outgrown them."

"And you're to tell them no differently," he said, abruptly rolling over to face her in the darkness.

"But what do you see?"

He hesitated. "I see them, sometimes. I see them when they ran away together, and how frightening it must have been-and exciting, and happy. Sometimes I see them building our home, or the first time Papa found the way to the village." He wasn't sure what he'd seen this time. When Shette poked him awake like that, sometimes he lost it all.

"Dreams," she said, sleepy again.

No. Not like a dream at all. True Dreams, they were. "Yes," he said. "Dreams." He shifted to his back again, looking for a comfortable arrangement of his body on the subtle dips and hollows of the ground.

"They don't sound all that bad to me," she said, pulling her blanket in close. "Not worth so much fuss and bother."

"Sometimes they change into nightmares," Laine said shortly. "Now go to sleep. It's not me that's keeping us awake now."

Shette murmured, "Bossy older brother," and was apparently content to leave it at that. Her breathing lapsed into light snoring, a gentle sound that he could barely hear above the rain as he stared into darkness and tried to remember just when the Dreams had changed. He wondered whose death he was feeling, night after night. Whose eyes was he trapped behind-and would he ever get the chance to turn and face their betrayal?

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• Barrenlands Prologue
• Barrenlands Chapter Two
• Barrenlands Chapter Three