The Ring of Eman Vath
Chapter Seven: The Road to Var Athel

AmyQuinn was exhausted.

She’d thought Valinor had been exaggerating when he’d said he intended to ride through the night, the next day, and only stop the following evening. Upon leaving Dunlow, however, it became quite clear that he was entirely serious. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ Findɴovel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

It made it worse that she wasn’t used to long rides on horseback. She knew how to ride of course, and she often did, but this was not a jaunt around the village or down the PenRo and back in time for one of Jasper’s home-cooked meals. This was riding for hours and hours at a time, and she soon found that there were muscles in her back, legs, and rear that she’d never known about but that could nevertheless hurt quite horribly.

They did stop once or twice to rest the horses, though she was convinced that if they had not needed to in order to keep their mounts from dropping dead beneath them, Valinor would have pushed on, dragging her behind him.

They rode in silence, and as fatigue took over, her mind whirled into ever more frenzied action despite her attempts to cudgel it into silence. She was so tired that rising levels of anxiety floated beneath her every thought, and still so shocked by what had happened in Dunlow that a haze of panic and guilt assailed her every time she thought of what she was leaving behind.

Should she have stayed? She was the daughter of Eldric and Jaes Stonewall, wasn’t it her responsibility to stay and be of service? To help in any way she could?

Maybe after. Maybe after Var Athel I’ll go back and help, she told herself, trying to assuage her guilt.

She tried to think instead of the path their journey would take: Var Athel was on the northern side of Maiden’s Bay and only accessible by water through the narrow channel between Var Athel and Caelron itself. She remembered hearing from a terribly blushing Lenny that the bay was so named because in all the years of war between Caelron and Charridan it had never been taken. Her father, on the other hand, had said it was named because the land of Aginor across the bay from Caelron was young and full of Aeon’s richest soil.

The Citadel, which was the heart of Var Athel, was said to sit on a rock that jutted violently from the sea, and though many visited it, and indeed inhabited the large city that had grown up on the nearest bank, only Sorev Ael knew the secrets behind its walls, and they transcended all ties and binds of loyalty. The Sorev Ael swore fealty to no one, and though they could be counted as representatives and allies of Caelron, Londor, and all the land of Aeon, they were subject to no laws but their own.

Her thoughts continued to circle: thinking of home, awash in guilt, excited about the journey, guilty again… and all the while the sun rose higher in the sky and sleep seemed like a fond memory of a time long past.

She made it through breakfast and lunch, though both were taken in the saddle and consisted of simple fare – salted meat, bread, water – but she very quickly started to fade as the hot ball of fire passed its zenith and began to descend the western half of the sky. Her eyelids felt as though metal weights had been attached to them, and more than once she started awake just in time to realize that she was leading Col off the main road into the dense forest that grew alongside it.

Valinor had no such trouble. He never faltered, and his gaze never wavered from the road they were taking. His staff was carefully stowed along the side of his horse, in easy reach of his left hand, and he sat the saddle with the easy slouch of a long-time rider. Once or twice at most he glanced over his shoulder at AmyQuinn to confirm her continued presence, but otherwise he completely ignored her and responded with nothing more than grunts when she tried to engage him in conversation.

There were people on the road at least, and these AmyQuinn was able to watch in order to keep herself awake. There were single-horse carts packed with strange goods that used the well-worn ruts down the center of the wider packed-dirt sections of the PenRo; there were lone riders, dressed in heavy traveling cloaks and with the gruff air of those who wished not to be disturbed; and there were even merchant trains that trundled along in the company of hired guards and sometimes turned up the winding side roads toward the Windy Mountains, where lay smaller farming towns like Dunlow.

Apart from providing distraction, though, these fellow travelers did happen to present an interesting problem due to the very obvious evidence of an unconscious man tied across the back of Valinor’s horse.

The masked raider had not woken since he’d been put to sleep, and it seemed quite likely to AmyQuinn that he would not wake at all until the Sorev Ael wanted him to. Though, considering Valinor neither fed nor watered him, there was also the very real chance that he was already dead. She tried once or twice to get up the courage to ask him about it, but the Sorev Ael looked so much like a sulking bird of prey with his sharp nose, black hair, and flaring gray cloak that her voice always ended up deserting her before she got the words out.

The Sorev Ael also made no attempt to cover the man, which she thought displayed quite a dangerous lack of foresight. It turned out, however, that most people who noticed unconscious raider then noticed Valinor and ended up saying nothing. They would then watch the strange trio go by with open mouths, and if Valinor acknowledged them at all it was with a curt nod that perfectly completed the frosty air of superiority that so enveloped him. He cut such an imposing figure, and his ruby ring was so often out and flashing in the light, that no one even attempted to stop them.

With one exception.

As they trudged ever northward, they passed a Caelron garrison housed in a barracks and tower really not much more than a glorified fort outside of a small and sleepy town that AmyQuinn thought vaguely might be Erinwale. When they went past, the lookout spotted them and sounded the alarm; seconds later, men in armor came rushing out with swords in hand.

The Sorev Ael raised a single eyebrow and issued a terribly put-upon sigh. He reined in his horse and AmyQuinn did the same.

A man in a simple wool cloak over half-polished armor detached himself from the rear and came forward. He looked not the slightest bit imposing, though he did manage to hold his sword in a way that showed he knew which end was pointy. His long hair was tied back from his young face, which still had baby fat clinging to it, and though he looked like the dim backside of a lame horse, he did seem ready to perform his duty and confront them.

But before he could speak, Valinor raised his right hand to the sky. Sunlight caught the ruby in his ring and shot out a brilliant flash of red.

“I am a Sorev Ael of Var Athel, captain,” Valinor said in the same neutral tone he had assumed with Eldric and Jaes Stonewall. It seemed to be the tone he adopted when he was annoyed or impatient and doing his best to pretend he wasn’t. “I apologize for my demeanor, but I am on business from the Circle itself, and I cannot allow you or your men to stop me.”

He lowered his hand and the day’s brilliance seemed somehow to dim. The young captain with the sword looked at him with a furrowed brow and an open mouth, and then abruptly cleared his throat, turned on his heel, and tromped back to the fort without a word. The rest of the garrison followed his progress with wide eyes, shooting glances back at Valinor. They seemed to be under impression that they might still be required to arrest him, fancy ring or no, but Valinor didn’t wait for them to try. He simply nodded – curt but polite, as though they’d invited him in for tea but he’d been forced to decline – and heeled his horse on up the road, shooting a curt grimace that might have passed for a smile to a group of villagers that had stopped to watch.

AmyQuinn hurried after him.

There was no other excitement to be had on the road that day, and within minutes she fell once again into a sleep-deprived stupor. When finally they reached their first destination– a town on the PenRo called Brunith – she could barely keep her eyes open. She heard as if through bits of cotton Valinor speaking to someone else, but her mind was not working well enough to make out what was said. Half-understood impressions stuck in her mind: she saw buildings and heard the sound of people laughing, and vaguely smelled bread and wine.

The next she knew, she had dismounted Col, though she didn’t remember doing so. She only remembered catching herself on the saddle to keep from collapsing as blood rushed back through her legs to pool in her feet. It felt as though numb, waterlogged tree stumps had replaced her lower half.

She did her best to stand up straight, leaning heavily on Col for support, but the horse was so tired himself that he leaned back against her and didn’t help at all.

When Valinor was done speaking to the man outside the single-story inn – it was barely a hovel beside the Fairfield, she managed to think – someone came and took Col away, and she felt a steady hand help her walk somewhere. She hoped that the horse would be given a good bed in the inn, and only vaguely realized that there was something wrong with this thought. There was some talk about the man tied to the back of the horse – the pirate … the pie … the pie rat? – and what to do with him. She did not mark most of it and could not have said what was discussed or the excuses Valinor made. All told, she remembered very little besides arriving at the stables and then being helped up into a hayloft.

“What – why are we doing up here?” she mumbled, slurring her words together so badly that it was hard for even her to understand them.

“A Sorev Ael accepts only the lowest and the least,” Valinor said softly as he helped her up the final rungs of the ladder. Once in the loft, which was lit by a lantern he carried and hung on a waiting hook, she saw that the space, though full of hay, was indeed large enough for two people to sleep in. “The inn is full, so this is the lowest and the least. I have slept here many nights and will surely sleep here many more. It is comfortable enough. And dry and warm, which is more important.”

“But… you’re a Sorry Ael… you could sleep in the best room if you wanted to.”

She thought she heard him chuckle, and she did not understand why.

“I could indeed,” was what he said as he set down the well-mended bags he’d carried up from down below. Each bore a number of patches so seamlessly incorporated into the whole that from a distance they were impossible to distinguish. “I could take by force almost anything. I even know enough that I need not use force at all – I might simply have convinced the innkeeper that what he wanted to do, more than anything in the world, was to give me his very best room.”

Something about his tone brought her back to fuller consciousness, and she managed to concentrate on him as he continued. His brows were low and his sharp nose threw shadows across his face in the light of the lantern.

“But I gave up the right to such power when I joined the Sorev Ael. Because the measure of a man is not in what he can take but in what he can do with what he is given. Or the measure of a woman, I suppose.”

He moved back down the ladder nailed to the stout oak posts of the loft, disappearing in a swirl of red and gray. There was noise below, and then only seconds later he was back, this time with the unconscious brigand slung over his shoulder as easily as another man might have slung a traveling case.

“Take this,” was all he said after he had deposited the man in the hay and pulled out rations from his pack. “Eat.”

She did as told, and energy slowly returned to her limbs. She was still tired, but it was a lighter feeling, as though the weight had been temporarily set aside. She drank as well, and her stomach gurgled happily. Valinor ate and drank without speaking, as he always did, but she realized that, for the first time, she had a captive audience. Maybe now he would talk to her?

She made up her mind.

“What’s magic?” she asked. Her tiredness still lurked around the corner, but the food had revived her enough that she was able to carefully watch his reaction. She was disappointed, though: his hard mask of stoicism never lifted, and he continued gnawing on a hard piece of dried meat. She waited, breathless, but nothing happened. It was as though he had not even heard her. She bit back her disappointment and thought that maybe she would just go to sleep. Maybe the next night, or on the road –

“There is no such thing as magic. There is knowledge, nothing more.”

She looked up so fast that she cricked her neck. She waited for more, rubbing the sore spot, but nothing else was forthcoming. The Sorev Ael continued to chew at his jerky, not casting so much as a glance her way. She examined what he had said, repeating it over a few different ways in her head, and came to the conclusion that this was a highly unsatisfactory answer.

She decided to try again.

“Then why can’t everyone be a Sorev Ael?”

He stuck the rest of the jerky in his mouth, chewed fiercely, and then swallowed a hearty swig of water. He shook his head, wiped a hand across his mouth, and then finally turned to her. He took a moment to examine her from head to toe, giving no indication of what he was thinking until he grunted in an amiable sort of way.

“Because not everyone has the talent for it,” he said as if the answer should have been evident. “Just as not everyone has the talent to be an excellent blacksmith, or the art to be a renowned sculptor. Everyone can learn some – but there is very little that can be done without raw talent. Even the uncreative can sketch a rough figure in the dirt, but only true artists can paint a truly beautiful landscape.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, soaking this up.

“And also, the knowledge is very hard to come by,” he said, pulling off his cloak and bunching it up to use as a pillow. He lay back to test it, but continued talking as he did. “Not everyone is willing to swear oaths to never hold property or power. Not everyone is willing to go through the years of learning it takes, nor through the Trials.”

“Trials?”

“Yes – like a blacksmith must forge a series of metal rings for the Smith Guild before he is confirmed a Master and given his Papers, so too are the Sorev Ael asked to do that which will prove the mastery of their skills. We call them the Trials – and before you ask: no, I cannot tell you about them. You’ll hear rumors, no doubt, from the other apprentices, but they’ll all be wrong. They always are.”

“When will I take them?”

“It depends. You must serve five years as a Deri’cael apprenticed to a Sorev Ael once you earn your staff, though it is rare to move even that quickly. And that’s on top of the base apprenticeship in the Citadel you’ll have to go through in order to earn the right to even try for your staff in the first place. Still... you will move quickly, I think.”

“I will?”

“Yes.” He looked up then, propping his head on his hands and contracting his stomach so that he had enough height to peer down his nose at her. “Yes, I do.”

He rolled over and lapsed back into silence, and only seconds later began to snore. With his retreat into unconsciousness, her own surrender was nearly immediate. She had barely leaned back against the hay behind her when her eyes slid shut and the world disappeared.

She woke with a start the next morning, groggy and completely unable to comprehend why she was laying in a huge, messy pile of hay.

When she tried to move, her body creaked, groaned, and popped like a warped wooden deck ill-fitted. Sunlight danced in through the cracks of the old loft wall, and a single beam had filtered through the dusty air to fall across her face and wake her. She groaned and rolled onto her stomach; her lower back gave out a particularly loud crack of protest. She started to rub the sleep from her eyes but then thought of the straw and decided against it. She glanced across the hayloft –

The Sorev Ael was gone.

Shocked, she shot to her feet and began examining the space from different angles, trying to peer into the shadowed corners to find him. But despite her frantic searching, there was no escaping the fact that Valinor was simply gone. Cursing to try to make herself feel braver, she raced down the ladder to the floor of the stable, already expecting the worst. Maybe he had made off with the horse and all their provisions – a horse like Col would fetch a good price anywhere, and –

Col looked up at her as she landed painfully on the packed-dirt floor, her legs not quite working properly yet. He stopped chewing his hay long enough to toss his head and eye her with an air of effrontery before turning away. He, at least, looked much refreshed.

“You could have slept longer,” said the steady voice of the Sorev Ael.

She spun and saw him slipping back through the door of the stable with a loaf of bread and an earthenware pitcher. He did not seem to notice her fear, but instead tore off half the loaf and tossed it to her with a casual motion, then turned around where he stood and sat on the floor. He eyed his bread critically, seemed to confirm that yes, it was indeed bread, and then attacked it with gusto.

He looked different this morning. His eyes were no longer sunk back in their sockets, and his skin was cleaner and tighter, without the grime and sweat of several days’ exertion. His black hair with the graying temples looked less tangled and dirty, as though he had at least attempted to pull a comb through it, and his movements were sharper and lighter.

He looked up and caught her watching him.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

After an awkward moment wherein she wondered if she should apologize for staring and then thought better of it, she came forward and sat down across from him. She glanced at the half loaf of bread in her hand and realized she was ravenous. Her stomach growled at her and pinched inward to further emphasize its point, and so she bit into the bread, which she found out was warm and freshly buttered. Within seconds, the whole half loaf was gone. She chewed the butt thickly, swallowed it down, and then grabbed up the earthenware pitcher and tipped it back, gulping its contents: clear, cool water that tasted sweeter than honey.

“You look better,” she said abruptly, trying to start a conversation. She did not want to admit it, but she was incredibly relieved he hadn’t left her, and she felt like celebrating by pushing her luck from the night before.

He grunted vaguely but otherwise made no reply. He was still focused on the remaining heel of his half of the loaf. His pace had slowed, and he was chewing it thoughtfully as he contemplated the dwindling remainder.

“How long has it been since the last time you slept?” she asked.

He glanced at her and arched an eyebrow, then smirked and turned back to his heel of bread, looking it over once more before taking a final bite. He spoke out of the corners of his mouth around the edges of the chunk:

“Five days.”

Her eyebrows ascended her forehead and her mouth dropped open.

“But that’s not possible!” she said.

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve tried it!”

It was his turn to look surprised. For the first time that morning, he turned his full attention to her and seemed startled by what he found. His gaze intensified, and her heart palpitated nervously in her chest. His burnt-black eyes combed through her and picked her apart as a strange heat grew in the pit of her stomach.

He barked a laugh and spun to his feet, wiping his hands on his trousers.

“I believe you have,” he said with a grin. The smile had an amazing effect on him – whole years dropped off, and he looked almost youthful. “But Sorev Ael can do what most people cannot. I needed to be awake until such time as we reached Londor – I was prepared to go for the rest of the week if necessary.”

She found herself watching him carefully for any hint of a lie, but she did not see one. He was acting as though this was nothing more interesting or involved than taking a long walk.

“But how?” she insisted. “Do you just try? Or is it magic? Or do you need – ”

“There is no such thing as magic,” he interrupted, and the chastisement was clear in his voice. The smile was gone, and he was frowning. “Remember what you’re told; I will not repeat myself again. There is only knowledge. I understand the world, and myself, and so I can do what most cannot. Eventually you’ll understand. In Var Athel they will give you the schooling you need.”

He moved to his roan horse and began rummaging around in the saddlebags. Anger rose up in her, hot and sharp. How was she supposed to remember what he’d told her when she was dead tired? And why did that little detail matter?

“Why was Dunlow attacked?” she asked, crossing her arms across her chest just as her mother did when she was upset. She had not planned the question, but the indignant tone in which she asked it fit her mood perfectly.

He paused in the middle of his action, and she saw his shoulders tense briefly before he continued on rummaging. He did not respond, but instead leaned down and lifted the unconscious body of the raider into the saddle and began to tie him in place once more.

“What were they trying to get?” she pressed, her frustration pushing her. “That man said that they were looking for people. Why would they want people? And why would they go all the way over the Windy Mountains to get them?”

“I’m not sure,” he evaded, still tying the raider in place, though the knots looked perfectly tight already.

“No – you do know,” she accused him, suddenly bursting out in a huge rush of words. “You came into Dunlow and you left with half of it burned. And you told me I can be a Sorev Ael and you just took me away, and you have a man who looks like he’s dead on your horse, and you don’t say a single word to me the whole time we’re traveling and all of that means you don’t know? I’m thirteen – I’m not stupid!”

Valinor had finally stopped fiddling and turned to look at her, and his eyes grew narrower with every word. When she fell silent, he shook his head.

“There are some things of which I cannot speak.”

“They came for my family!” she said, almost shouting now, her whole body rigid with anger.

He did not respond to the outburst. Instead, he just watched her, with such intensity that he seemed to be memorizing her face. There were thoughts going on beneath the surface of his mind – she could see them, like shadows of movement beneath a still pond, but she couldn’t read them. What was he thinking?

“Then go back to your family and see if they care that you’re throwing a tantrum,” he said brusquely. She felt her cheeks warm until she was sure they were glowing, and she tried to sputter out a response, but he gave her no time. “Otherwise, get on your horse, act your age, and follow me.”

He untied his roan from the hitching post, mounted in a single fluid motion, and heeled the horse out of the stable, all before she could say a thing.

She rushed to the door and saw him already heading for the PenRo.

He’ll stop and wait for me, she thought. He will.

He showed no sign of slowing, though. In fact, as she watched, his horse picked up speed until it was trotting along at a decent clip, bouncing the sleeping brigand up and down ridiculously as it went.

With the begins of panic, she rushed for Col and mounted as quickly as she could, throwing the saddle over his back, pulling the straps tight, vaulting herself up into the seat, and then wheeling him about. The gelding let loose a whinny of protest at such ill treatment, but she cursed at him, then apologized, and finally managed to maneuver him out of the barn. With a burst of speed, she raced after the Sorev Ael, her cheeks still red with a combination of fury and mortification.

Fine. If he won’t talk to me, then I won’t talk to him. Let’s see how he likes it.

The next few days passed in total silence, and Valinor seemed to find this a vast improvement.

Her first sight of Var Athel put her in mind of a gem shining in the noonday sun.

The walls of the famous Citadel were made of white stone, and they towered over the waves that lapped at the base of the crescent-shaped rock on which it stood. The swelling white curtains of stone that made up the boundaries of the sorcerers’ city seemed to rise from the sea itself when the tide was full, and there was no way to tell where the smooth white stone of the walls ended and the raw, unformed rock of the island from which it grew began. It was one seamless piece, integrated into the world with the smooth efficiency of natural beauty. Above the walls were visible towers and turrets, as well as soaring rooftops with flying buttresses and carved statues of men and beasts set on guard and looking out, as if stationed to defend the magnificent structure.

All of it together was larger and more glorious than anything AmyQuinn had ever seen. Several Dunlows could have fit easily inside with room to spare, and even though she stared at it incessantly as they approached, she still could not comprehend its size. Even the Caelron Great Ships, huge constructions of wood and canvas that looked like clouds and waves made solid, were dwarfed by the Citadel as they sailed past it through the channel and out to the Shining Sea.

The ferry they had taken from the mainland just south of Caelron – Valinor had broken their frosty silence long enough to tell her that it was the fastest way to Var Athel – had let them out on the coast of the cove that circled the Floating City, at the docks along the mainland shore. There was another city there, one not inhabited by Sorev Ael but by common men and women. It was large and thriving due to the presence of the Citadel and the traffic it attracted, but as they passed through the myriad shops and houses, AmyQuinn could not understand how anyone there got anything done. Surely they must spend all their time staring in wonder at –

“Come along!” Valinor snapped, urging her back into motion. He’d been forced to repeat the same thing a dozen times since they’d landed, and it was clear in his tone that whatever shred of patience he’d retained was close to fraying entirely.

They turned down a number of roads, passed a number of shops and inns and eating places – even the smallest of which looked larger and more elegant than anything Dunlow had to offer – and then finally emerged at the wide entrance to a long stone bridge that led to the Citadel. It was marvelously crafted, lined as it was with paving stones that were almost impossibly smooth and even, and it was wide enough for three carts to pass abreast. Countless men and women in a wide array of clothing all of various colors, cuts, and styles crowded across it. Their skin was everything from the pale white of Aginor to the deep black of fabled Laniae, something that boggled AmyQuinn’s mind. She even saw what she was certain must be Sorev Ael coming and going; some were alone, some were in groups, but all bore openly the staff and ring of their office.

“There are so many,” she whispered.

“There are not as many as there were,” Valinor replied, startling her. It was the first response he’d made to her since their fight in Erinwale. They were on foot now, leading their horses behind them, and close enough that talking was easy, even in the midst of the heavy traffic crossing the bridge.

“How many are there?” she asked, seizing the opportunity.

“A little over a thousand in the Citadel. Three hundred or so full Sorev Ael, slightly more Deri’cael who’ve earned their staff and are working for their ring, and the rest apprentices.”

She nodded dumbly, too awed by the place and the people to ask anything else. She felt her annoyance and anger from their quarrel fade into the background. Valinor was the only familiar part of this whole alien landscape, and she stayed close to his side. She knew she looked like a country-born fool, her mouth hanging open as she took in the sights all around her, but she couldn’t help it. She brushed hay and trail dust from her breeches even as she tried to ignore her appearance, thinking all the while that she resembled nothing so much as an urchin who had lived in a hovel all her life.

“There are more who come seeking entrance, of course,” Valinor continued, oblivious to her discomfort, “but many are turned away.”

Fear shot through her and she stopped dead.

“What?”

He walked a few more paces before he paused and glanced back.

“Many are turned away,” he repeated, confused.

“Turned away?” she asked, incredulous and horrified in equal measures. “But – wait, does that mean that I could be turned away?”

“It’s possible,” he replied, his mind clearly on something else.

“But – then – why am I here? I thought you said I had the talent!”

Valinor finally appeared to sense that he’d said something to upset her. A shadow passed over his face, and he became noticeably uncomfortable. Abruptly, he drew her into a small recess along the side of the bridge – a rounded platform made for looking out over the water – and motioned for her to sit on a ledge that circled the inside of it. She tried to keep hold of herself as she did, but suddenly everything was racing around inside her head and she could not catch hold of a single thought long enough to think it.

“You do have the talent,” the Sorev Ael said, grabbing her by the shoulder with one of his steady hands. The pressure and the touch made her feel solid and anchored, and she was able to take a deep breath with only a slight hitch.

“Listen to me,” he continued. “This is what is going to happen. At the end of the bridge is the Keeper’s Gate. There are enchantments on it that keep out those who would do the Citadel harm – enchantments so old that every Sorev Ael in Var Athel working together could neither duplicate nor dispel them. When we pass through, the Gate will sense your talent and alert a man known only as the Keeper. The Keeper is old, very old. He’s been here since I was a child, since I came here for training, and he was very old then as well. There are many secrets to Var Athel, and he is keeper of them all. He comes and goes as he pleases – some say he is not a man at all, but an enchantment, born of the walls and the gate and the city itself. He will come to you in the Sorcerers’ Court, which is only just beyond the Keeper’s Gate. It is as far as many men and women go – it is the only area inside the walls where outsiders are allowed. Merchants come there to trade, and those seeking an audience with the Circle or other Sorev Ael come to petition the scribes. When the Keeper comes, you must do as he says – exactly as he says – and all will be well. You will be revealed as a potential Sorev Ael, and you will write your name in the Book, at which time you will be asked to speak the oath that will bind you to Var Athel. That is all.”

As he finished, she found that the weight on her chest had dissipated somewhat and she was finally able to take a full breath. She looked up into his burnt-black eyes, and it was his calm that helped her compose herself in the midst of the alien majesty that cloaked the whole of her journey and her future and made her feel as though she were being swallowed by a strange, invisible creature.

“I will be with you until the Keeper deems you fit,” Valinor continued, letting go of his horse’s reins so that he could rest both hands on her shoulders and look her right in the eye. “When you are accepted, you will go with the Stewards.”

“You won’t be with me after that?” AmyQuinn asked, feeling again that flare of panic. What had she been thinking in coming here? What was she committing to? What if the Keeper did not take her, or what if the Gate thought she had “ill-intent” and decided to deal with her or – ?

“I am not a teacher,” he replied. “I must report to the Circle, and then I will be gone again. There are those here who are much better able to teach than I. But know this: I went through the training, as does every Sorev Ael. It is a part of who we are.”

He released her and stood up. He paused awkwardly, halfway between turning back to the horse and staying with her, and through her fear she realized that he was not used to touching people.

But the moment passed. He took the reins of his horse, checked the unconscious brigand – he’d finally covered the man when they’d taken the ferry across the bay – and then set out again to finish crossing the bridge. She followed him with a sinking feeling, like she was being led to the gallows, and with each step panic rose up higher in her chest, filling her up and squeezing her lungs so that it was very hard to breathe. Her vision narrowed in on the gate, blocking out the people and the rest of the bridge. It loomed in front of her, a yawning mouth waiting to swallow her whole. The iron spikes of its portcullis hung high above like teeth, and it was dark inside, pitch black with no light.

“Why is it dark?” she managed to ask.

“It’s an illusion,” he replied calmly. “Follow closely.”

She jerked Col along behind her, and the gelding gave a sharp whiny of complaint. They crossed beneath the shadow of the wall – which soared above them like the craggy precipice of a mountainside – and then they were in total darkness.

Something passed over and through her, and she gasped as though she’d been plunged into cold water. Her lungs shriveled up inside her body and she stumbled several steps forward. As she did, the world reappeared around her and the icy cold dissipated. Col came through behind her, and though he looked startled by her sudden change in stride, he made no sign or show that he’d noticed anything out of the ordinary. She glanced back and found she could now see through the gate quick easily. The bridge was there in plain sight, though it did seem oddly tilted, as if she were looking at it through a heat haze.

“Come along, girl.”

She turned back and saw Valinor several yards farther ahead. She hurried after him, pulling the exasperated Col along behind her.

They were inside a long, high passageway now, with bright light visible at the end. The arched tunnel was made of white stone fitted together so perfectly that when she trailed her hand along the wall she felt nothing but the slightest indentations. They passed out of the tunnel, and she squinted against the glare of reflected sunlight.

It was like stepping into a tapestry. The floor was made of creamy white stone, and the courtyard itself was lined with pillars that were as thick around as tree-trunks. It had no ceiling in the center, but was instead open to the sky, letting in the noonday sun. Three pathways led right, left, and straight ahead, and each disappeared into a maze of shops and stalls painted in a riot of color. There were amulets and medallions that claimed to ward off sickness, as well as stoppered bottles containing bright liquid purported to cure disease and induce euphoria. There were knives that would not dull for a dozen years and wagon tongues that would not break. Bright green birds from distant lands squawked and cried loudly from where they were tethered next to sleek black cats with golden eyes full of uncanny intelligence.

The sheer number of people was overwhelming. They wandered in and out of the shops and haggled with merchants who bore the seal of the Sorev Ael on their left breast. They all called about and greeted each other and laughed as young boys in simple wool clothing with the ring and staff emblazoned on their backs ran about and got underfoot, delivering messages and offering various services.

Valinor took the central path, and AmyQuinn followed. The crowd parted as they advanced, revealing two distant lines of people at the base of a set of stairs that led up to what AmyQuinn assumed was the Citadel proper. At the front of each line stood a harried-looking pair of men hastily taking notes as they listened to their petitioners. Valinor continued in that direction, and she followed quickly, only to nearly collide with him when he abruptly stopped a second later.

“Master Therin!”

It was a young boy who had called out what appeared to be Valinor’s official title, and he ran up to them breathing heavily.

“Thom,” Valinor said with a curt nod. He handed the reins of his horse to the boy, who stopped and stared wide-eyed at the body of Tholax just visible beneath the covering that had slipped enough to reveal a bound arm and shoulder.

“Oh, yes,” Valinor said lightly. “See that he’s taken to the dungeons. I will inform the Circle of him myself.”

“Will… you go to see them now?”

“Not yet. There’s something I have to do.”

He glanced down at AmyQuinn, and the boy followed his gaze. When Thom saw her, he looked confused. He had the air of someone who was often confused, and his dirty brown hair stuck up in the back like he was trying to imitate a rooster.

“Is she a prisoner too?”

“No,” Valinor said, and she thought she saw the ghost of a smile cross his impassive face. “She’s an apprentice.”

The boy’s eyes grew round and his mouth dropped open. He stared with such intensity that AmyQuinn began to feel horribly self-conscious. She had not bathed in days, and her hands itched to smooth her shirt and ferret out any remaining pieces of straw from their nights spent sleeping in haylofts. But she balled her traitorous fingers into fists instead and bunched them by her side.

“Are you joking, Master Therin?”

“No.”

“But she’s a girl,” the boy said, incredulous.

“And you’re an ass,” she retorted immediately.

“You are both correct,” Valinor said, highly amused.

The Sorev Ael motioned for Col’s reins, and she passed them over with trembling hands. Valinor handed him off to the stable boy, who was still staring at her as if she were some strange creature with a third eye and tentacles.

“Thom,” Valinor prompted, thoroughly enjoying the interaction but clearly impatient to continue on. “Go do what I asked.”

The boy tore his eyes away from her and focused back on Valinor, and then went pale as the blood drained from his face. Suddenly he was bowing and backing away, muttering apologies, until he finally disappeared into the crowd.

As soon as he was gone, she turned to Valinor.

“Does it matter that I’m a girl?” she asked quickly. “Are girls not allowed?”

“Two of the most powerful Sorev Ael in history were the Sisters after which you are named,” he said simply. “The Sorev Ael don’t – ”

He stopped abruptly and looked over her shoulder, his expression suddenly veiled. She turned, expecting Thom and readying a sharp-tongued scolding to send him on his way again, but it died on her lips.

It was not Thom. It was instead a man older than any she had ever seen. His hair had gone beyond gray and was a pure, snowy white, bleached of all color like a bone left in the sun. His chin was covered in a thick beard that flowed down over his chest like a river of cotton, and the skin of his face was a mass of wrinkles and broken veins, blue worms just below the surface. His back was bent so that he leaned heavily on the staff he held in his left hand – a staff with a clawed crown as gnarled and tangled as the knuckles and fingers of the hand that held it.

The noise in the courtyard began to taper off and then abruptly died. Not a single person spoke for the space of a full minute, but then there came whispering as word was passed along, and soon there were more people crowding out of the shops and looking – all of them looking in at –

Me.

The sudden weight of a thousand eyes made AmyQuinn wish she could disappear. A vague, sourceless buzzing had taken over her body and was making her skin vibrate and her breath come in short, harsh bursts. Her back teeth were locked together so tightly that she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to speak again, and there was a lightness in her feet that was quite clearly urging her to run.

“Do not flee.”

The voice was as old as the man: an ancient tomb opening, full of cobwebs and hundreds of years of dust. But there was power in it, like a vein of gold deep below the earth, and it made her shiver like a plucked string. His words were more than words – they were the sound of wind and sea, and the slamming of a door.

“Do you understand me?” he asked.

The question hit her like a punch in the gut. The words, again, were not words but thoughts – images and sounds, the taste of copper, the smell of ancient wood with new oil – words that did not make sense as words. That part of her mind that had opened when she’d grabbed Valinor’s staff opened again, and it was like seeing a new color, or hearing a pitch higher than normal sound. There was an extra layer to the world, and she was being given a glimpse of it.

“Yes,” she replied.

The word that was not a word rolled out of her, but as soon as it was off her tongue and past her lips, she could no longer understand it. The extra sense of the world disappeared, and she snapped back to herself. She shook her head and swayed where she stood, then looked back at the man and saw him watching her with blank white eyes.

“Do you wish to learn?”

Again, the words that were not words rolled over her, and again that part of her mind opened up, but this time it was harder, and it left her gasping to utter even a single word reply:

“Y-yes.”

The sense of the words faded again as soon as the answer slipped past her teeth. Fatigue settled over her mind, though not her body, and she shivered as if she were in the grip of a fever.

The man slowly, ever so slowly, nodded.

Murmurs burst out around her like echoes in a dark cave, but she did not pay them heed. She had been seized by something else, something that nudged and poked against that part of her mind she hadn’t known existed. The part of her that understood this deeper language, this language of thoughts.

“You’re not a man,” she said.

The Keeper’s eyes widened, and his whole demeanor changed. Suddenly the benign smile was commanding, and the blind stare pierced her with frightening ferocity. She felt immediately that she had done something wrong. She tried to break away but the blank white eyes held her in place.

“What am I?” the Keeper asked.

The world swirled in around her, and there was nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing at all but the sound of the words and the thought that burned in her mind like a fire in the dark of night.

“Something more,” she whispered.

The Keeper smiled.

There was a burst of light and the connection broke. She stumbled back, her ears ringing. Strong hands caught her, and she recognized Valinor. He righted her, and she looked around wildly for the Keeper.

He was gone.

She stared stupidly at where he’d been until Valinor spoke.

“It’s over,” he said. She looked up and back at him, and then stood as best she could under her own power. She felt as though she’d been struck upside the head – her vision was fuzzy and she couldn’t make sense of what had happened.

“Did he tell me to go away?” she asked, worried. “He didn’t say anything about me staying. Does that mean I have to leave?”

Valinor raised his eyebrows and smiled an ill-concealed smirk. He came forward and rested a calm, sturdy hand on her shoulder.

“Look down,” he said.

She did, and gasped.

Her breeches and shirt had disappeared, and in their place was a full-length dress of snow-white cotton, with a white sash tied around her waist. Her feet were encased in sturdy white boots, her hands in white fingerless gloves, and on the right breast of her bodice beneath a well-fitted gray cloak was emblazoned a golden sigil – the ring and staff of Var Athel.

“Come with me,” he said.

She nodded, and together they walked into the Citadel.

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