“My lady—”

“Enough! Do not waste my time with falsehoods,” she snapped. “You and Lady Esteline think me unprotected and foolish, too naive to guard myself from ruinous seduction. I fear to disappoint you, my lord, but you have overestimated the power of your charm.”

He kept pace with her, but even through the shadows she could see how tense he had become. When he spoke, his voice was as tight and clipped as hers. “Forgive my offense. If you believe my family plots against you, you are completely mistaken. My youngest sister is already betrothed to a young man of worth and fortune. She is no rival to your ambition.”

Just short of a flambeau, he stopped on the garden path and faced her, his face and shoulders in shadow. “You quite mistook me. My compliments were sincere, but I assure you they will not trouble you again. Good evening.” With a bow, he strode away, leaving her there alone.  Pheresa stood next to a large shrub with her face and throat flaming hot. Her mind—momentarily so clear and certain—fell into confusion and she did not know what to think. It seemed she had erred again, and in doing so had insulted a man of importance. All the popular ladies at court had admirers, but she had just spurned her first so clumsily she might never attract another. The nuns had taught her how to read and think for herself, but not how to flirt.  Dismayed, she stood there hiding in the shadows until she was certain she would not cry, then slowly returned to the palace.

Far away in Nether, the shadows grew long and darkened inside Alexeika’s tent.  Eventually, she found a measure of calmness. She thought of the stories her father used to tell her about King Tobeszijian, handsome and strong, with his eld eyes and his thick black hair. When Queen Nereisse was poisoned and the throne overturned, Tobeszijian had acted like the true king he was. He seized the Chalice of Eternal Life from the hands of the churchmen who stole it and rode forth into a cloud of magic, never to be seen again.  The Chalice and Tobeszijian’s heirs were missing all these years later. It was rumored Tobeszijian was dead, for everyone felt he would have returned to fight for the throne had he been alive. But his body was never found. Men had searched. Often Alexeika had seen pilgrims trudging along lonely forest paths or steep mountain passes, their footgear worn to shreds as they searched tirelessly for their lost king.

Uzfan had cast prophecy and evoked visions, saying the king was lost forever, but that his son would one day return.

“King Faldain,” Alexeika whispered now. Her heart stirred at the mention of his name. He would be about her age, perhaps a year older, for she was not born until after the troubles in Nether began. Her older sister had died of some childhood illness. Later her mother had been killed. That was when her father came forth from hiding in exile and took Alexeika into his care. That was when he began to actively campaign against King Muncel. There had been war ever since.

If she had anything to do with it, there would continue to be war.  She wondered what Faldain looked like, if he was as strong and handsome as his father had been. Did he have Tobeszijian’s black hair? Or was he pale and fair like his eldin mother? Where did he live? Did he know of his heritage? Was he training, even now, in the arts of war so that he could return to avenge his parents and seize the throne rightfully his? Was he worthy of his name? Did he have the character and courage to be a king? Or was he spoiled and shallow?  She sighed, pushing away her speculation. The problem was that the people needed a man of flesh and blood to fight for. They needed to know that their rightful king existed. Until now, they had put their faith in her father and followed his leadership. But without the general, there was little to keep their hopes alive.  If Uzfan would only cast a vision of Faldain, the people might keep going. If they could see their king, they would know him worth waiting for.  She stood up, intending to go to the old priest and persuade him to cast a vision. But as she stepped outside her tent into the soft evening air, she halted. She could not ask again. If Uzfan possessed the strength to conjure up the vision, he would have done it rather than refuse her. It would be unkind to pester him and make him admit he was too weak to perform the task.  The evening breeze felt cool and pleasant. The camp lay quiet now, for most people had withdrawn inside their tents. She realized she hadn’t scheduled the night watch, but a shadow moved among the trees, telling her the work was being done anyway.

Out on the fjord, the water lay still and dark. A moon was rising in the sky.

She watched it climb the heavens and knew she needed hope as much as the others.

Perhaps more.

Well, then, she would use her own insignificant abilities and cast a vision for herself. Her mother had possessed a bit of eldin blood. Alexeika’s gifts were small indeed, and seldom used, for when she’d been younger Uzfan’s attempts to train her had been unsuccessful and frustrating to them both. Tonight, however, she decided to try. Perhaps, instead of a vision of the king, she would seek a vision of her father.

As long as she lived, she would never forget the sensation of feeling his soul pass from this world into another. It had felt like a benediction, his parting blessing, although he had never been a sentimental man given to emotional displays. Already she missed him so much.

Quietly she walked down the steep bank and untied a small fishing skiff.  Climbing in, she paddled her way across the fjord until she was well away from the bank. Shipping her paddle, she let the skiff bob there on the surface, waiting until the water grew calm and still.

The moon’s pale sliver hung above her. Stars spangled the darkness around it.  The water reflected back moon and starlight. She centered herself until she found a place of peace and acceptance.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated her thoughts on her father, envisioning a mist upon the water. Long ago she had tried to part the veils of seeing, as Uzfan referred to casting a vision. She was never very good at it, but now she tried not to think about old failures. In the past she’d wanted to see her mother, and her mother had not come willingly into sight.  Tonight, however, Alexeika still felt the fleeting touch of her father’s soul.  She focused on him, feeling the mists of her mind swirl around her, and opened her eyes, waiting with what patience she possessed.  The moonlight glowed deep within the water, shining deeper than she had ever seen it before.

After a time, however, she realized that this was not the moonlight which glowed in the depths, but rather something else.

It rose slowly, slowly to the surface of the water, wavered there, then broke through and lifted into the air. Water and vapor seemed to blend together. The air grew suddenly cold, as though she’d been plunged into winter.  She saw an apparition form and take shape, still glowing from within. It was the figure of a man. Her breath caught, then fled her lungs. This was not her father. Disappointment seeped through her. She saw instead a youth, dark-haired and lanky, his full growth not yet achieved. He stood there, his feet in the mist, his legs straight and coltish, his chest strong, his arms longer than his sleeves. His head was bowed, but then he lifted it and looked right at her.  She sat there openmouthed, unable to look away. How pale his eyes were, glowing with the unearthly light that formed him. His cheeks were lean, his nose straight and aristocratic. His brows were thick dark slashes above his eyes.  He spoke not, and she could not tell if he saw her. Then he lifted his right arm. A sword formed in his hand, both mist and light, a sword whose blade flashed with carved runes. When he swung it aloft, the runes flowed from the blade and sparkled off the tip like shooting stars.

They rained down on her, winking into the water and glowing there like tiny lights.

Tipping back her head, she laughed silently, marveling at the beauty of light and mist and water.

“I am Faldain,” her vision said, his voice sounding only in her head. It was a voice young but deepening, with a resonance that echoed long inside her. “Summon me not again. It is not my time to be found.”

“We need you,” she dared whisper. “Come and save your people.” He swung of mist and light again, this time right at her. The tip pierced her breastbone, and icy fire plunged through her heart. She arched her back with a choked cry.

Then he was gone, the vision fading in a last shower of sparks and starlight.  When she recovered her senses, Alexeika found herself huddled on her knees in the bottom of the skiff, doubled over and crying.

She hurt, yet her fingers found no wound where the vision had stabbed her. The mist was gone, and the water lay calm and dark. A cloud had crossed the moon overhead, muting the starlight as well.

With shaking hands, she rubbed the tears from her face. Her teeth were chattering, and she felt so very cold. Whatever she had wanted, it had not been this.

“Alexeika,” called a voice softly. It reached across the fjord and brought her from her thoughts. “Child, come back to shore. It is over now.” Startled, she looked at the bank. Uzfan, his long robe perilously close to the water, stood right at the edge, beckoning to her. Behind him clustered what looked like half the camp. The people were silent in the moonlight, which came and went fitfully behind its thin veil of cloud. They stared at her with their mouths open.

Fear touched her, along with embarrassment. What had they seen?  She gripped the paddle, her fingers tight on the polished wood, and felt a strong temptation to go far away into the darkness, never to return.  “Alexeika,” Uzfan called again. His voice was gentle, full of understanding.

“Come to shore, child. You must be cold.”

Yes, she felt as chilled as if it were a winter evening. Overhead, a falling star plummeted through the sky, falling out of sight among the treetops of the distant shore. She shivered and began to paddle slowly to Uzfan.  Her arms felt leaden and stiff. It seemed to take her forever to return, but finally the skiff bumped into the rocks and eager hands reached down to grip it and tie it fast.

Someone took her hands and pulled her to her feet. She stumbled out, feeling as though her mind was not quite connected to her body, and Uzfan gripped her arm firmly.

“Come, child,” he said. “Time to rest. Make way for her. Shelena, step aside.” The women and old men parted way before her reluctantly. As she walked between them, they reached out and touched her hair and her clothing, murmuring words she did not quite understand.

Up the hill, as she and Uzfan left the others behind and approached her tent, she faltered and stopped.

“What happened?” she asked, still feeling dazed.

“Come. I will build a fire,” the old man said kindly.

Beneath his reassuring tone, however, she heard disapproval.

She frowned. “I don’t understand. I wanted to see my father.” Uzfan shook his head and pushed her toward her tent. She stood next to it, watching while he assembled twigs and kindling in a circle of stones and struck sparks into the fluff of shredded bark. A small blaze caught, flaring orange in the darkness.

“Child, child,” he said in mild rebuke. “Do you remember none of the lessons I taught you? A soul newly departed cannot be seen. Would you call your father forth from the safety he so barely reached?”

“I miss him,” she said, her voice small like a child’s.

Uzfan climbed to his feet with a grunt and turned to grip her arms. “Come and sit by the fire. It will warm you.”

She sank to the ground, rubbing her chest where she still ached. Uzfan tended the fire, feeding sticks to it as the flames grew hungry and stronger. He kept staring at her with a frown, his eyes shifting away each time she glanced up.  His disapproval seemed stronger than ever.

She frowned. “I did something wrong?”

“Do you think so?” he asked too quickly.

She sighed. She didn’t want a lesson. “I don’t know. It seemed—I don’t know.  I’ve never cast a real vision before. Not like that.” She rubbed her chest again. “I didn’t know it would hurt.”

“Who did you conjure forth?” he asked sternly.

She did not answer. She was suddenly afraid to.

“Child, what you did was very wrong. Think of the danger you have placed yourself in. The camp now knows what you can do.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. I don’t know how it happened. I’ve tried before, and it never worked. You remember.”

“I remember an impatient girl refusing to follow instructions. Did I not warn you never to part the veils of seeing on your own?”

“No.”

He snorted. “Then remember it now. Dangerous, child! Dangerous. You must never invoke forces you do not understand or cannot control.” He shuddered. “We are too close to the battlefield. Nonkind roam our land, and the darkness is always close. You must never again take such a risk.”

“It wasn’t malevolent,” she said, trying to defend herself now. She felt ashamed, and therefore defiant. “I found no evil—” “Ah, but evil may find you,” he retorted, glaring at her.  She glared back and wanted suddenly to shock him. “It was Faldain,” she said.

“He told me so.”

Uzfan’s mouth fell open. He stared at her, his expression altering into one of shock. The stick he held halfway in the fire burst into flames, and still he sat there motionless.

At last, however, he was forced to throw the stick into the fire. Shaking his scorched fingers, he blew on them and stared at her again. “Faldain?” he whispered. “Are you certain?”

“He said that was his name.”

“Impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because it is. No one knows if the boy even lives, or where he might be.”

“He lives,” she said with assurance.

Uzfan clasped his hands together. “Great mercy of Thod,” he muttered. “How could you find him, an untrained natural—I—I am amazed.” “He said for me not to summon him again. He said it was not yet time for him to be found.” Frustration filled her, and she pounded her fist on her knee. “When will he come? If I am to keep people in support of him, he must come soon.” Uzfan reached out and closed his hand over her fist. “Stop this at once. You are not in command of these events.”