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  Slimy, silver-gray fish scales covered Enkinor's hands where he had gripped the sorcerer just as Raethir Del swam away. Even as the two men looked on, another ring of scales formed around Enkinor's wrists.

  Chapter 3

  There was blood, and there were tears. Though the former had stopped flowing for now, Visylon knew the latter would flow for some time. The Saerani warrior waded along the shore, helping carry lifeless and broken bodies from the water. Heedless of the dried blood and gore that still clung to him, he did his best to comfort the weeping people who drifted in from the woods by ones and twos to clutch him as he knelt to lay their dying brothers and sons on the sand. At the sound of a distant shout, he looked up and saw the last Saerani khayan returning to the smoldering camp. The boat carried two tribesmen. Between them, a motionless body lay in the bottom of the boat.

  Enkinor's fight with Raethir Del had not gone unnoticed. As Saeron, their chief, watched events unfold and directed his warriors against the Draelani, he had seen the sentara fighting the sorcerer. A few others had witnessed the struggle and the breaking of the spells once the sorcerer disappeared in the water. When Visylon learned of both Enkinor's role in their victory and his dangerous transmutation, he left the grisly work of caring for the dead and hurried to where his friend lay. He hoped, with a sad and angry pain in his heart, that he would not find yet another tribesman fallen.

  The guard lay in a makeshift lean-to, eyes shut, jaw set, chest rising and falling in an unnatural rhythm. Two women bathed him with warm cloths, avoiding his scaled hands, while others murmured beside him. Some of the Saerani did nothing more than stand at a distance and shed tears. Visylon motioned them all away, and they responded out of respect.

  “Enkinor,” he whispered, kneeling beside him. He looked at the sentara's hands and winced, a twinge of fear tickling his spine. The stain of sorcery had spread like a scaly fungus halfway to Enkinor's elbows.

  Visylon bowed his head. He had seen death, and he had lost friends. But this was not death. This was the leprosy of sorcery.

  “You know what you must do,” said a voice behind him.

  He turned as one of the elder tribesmen placed a light hand on his shoulder. Visylon stood. “What do you mean?”

  “You must prepare him for his death-rites.”

  Visylon turned on him, eyes ablaze.

  “We have no way to counteract this,” continued the elder. “Enkinor will die soon, either by sorcery or our mercy. Either way, he must be prepared.”

  Visylon looked back at the man lying under the shelter and said nothing. He gripped the hilt of his sword, fighting the impulse to draw his blade and challenge the fates to fair battle.

  “His family is gone. All he has now is you. You must do this for him,” the elder continued. “Just as he would for you. Now, go, get his things. Saeron has replaced the guards at Enkinor's outpost. They will give you what you need.”

  The hills were black masses against a violet, dusky horizon when Visylon returned to where Enkinor lay. The tribe had lit several bonfires along the shore of Lake Cinnaril. Perhaps the Saerani felt that the extravagant display with its warmth and light could hold their fear and despair at bay. The warriors had a saying. No sleep before the battle, no sleep after.

  Visylon had bathed and exchanged his vest and leggings for a long white robe. His sword was set aside, still filthy with blood, needing attention. As a warrior, that was worse than irresponsible. It was unnatural. It went against his training. Besides, Visylon sorely wanted to use it, to give another Draelani a taste of Saerani ferocity. But Enkinor took precedence over everything else.

  Visylon laid Enkinor's belongings at the guard's feet. He clenched his teeth as he noticed the scales had climbed to Enkinor's elbows. With great care, he began removing the sentara's torn and dirty clothing, avoiding Enkinor's forearms. For a moment, Visylon wondered if amputation would save his friend.

  Enkinor was still unconscious, and for this, Visylon was glad. If the guard remained unconscious, he wouldn't have to face what was happening to his body. Once Visylon removed Enkinor's clothing, he managed to robe the guard in white, like himself.

  Fight it, Enkinor, fight it! Don't let death win.

  As the warrior laid Enkinor down on his pallet, the guard's eyes blinked once and closed again.

  “Who's here?” he said, voice raspy and weak.

  Startled, Visylon told him.

  “Where am I? I've had such hideous dreams ... underwater ... swimming ... chasing fish ...”

  Visylon's throat was tight. A horrifying thought crossed his mind. The transformation might be spreading to Enkinor's mind as well.

  “We defeated the Draelani, Enkinor,” said Visylon, “but you were hurt struggling with the sorcerer.”

  “Hurt? How?” Eyes open, Enkinor rose up on his elbows and looked first at his arms. With a gasp, he fell back, eyes wild with fear, mouth agape. A few moments later, the sentara recovered his voice. “My gloves — put my gloves on me — please.” He licked his lips. “I don't want to see this.”

  The warrior took long leather gauntlets from the pile of Enkinor's things and pulled them onto the guard's hands, careful not to let his fingers touch the scales on Enkinor's arms. Enkinor began to weep silently, great spasms of emotion racking him.

  “Visylon,” he managed to say at last. “The sorcerer turned into a fish while I was holding him under the water. What evil is this that rubs off onto my very hands?”

  Visylon wept with him, horrified and grief-stricken. They shared their despair until at long last Enkinor fell asleep from exhaustion.

  He looked at Enkinor's hands. Only the scales around Enkinor's elbows were visible. His hands and forearms were hidden by his gauntlets. Only now did Visylon notice how peculiar the gauntlets looked. The backs and the cuffs were black, while the palms and finger-pads were tan, like the underside of the paws of some large beast. The gauntlets were otherwise unadorned.

  Visylon watched over his friend in silence. Enkinor's brief moments of wakefulness were marked by weary murmuring. Murmurs about the abandoned corpse of a murdered friend beside a small stream; of a pair of strange gauntlets bestowed as a parting gift; of a red-haired man, dressed in black, helping a small tribe of no import. At times, Visylon thought Enkinor recognized him through his delirium.

  Only the thought that Enkinor might draw comfort from Visylon's presence kept the warrior from retrieving his sword, from going in search of the sorcerer who had brought death and destruction to the Saerani, and evil to Enkinor. When the guard quieted at last, Visylon succumbed to exhaustion and fell into an uncomfortable sleep.

  It was deep, dark night when he awoke by Enkinor's pallet. No moonlight, no starlight filtered through the trees to lift his spirits. Sometime during the evening, the Saerani women had placed a fiery ring of torches on poles around the shelter. Visylon rose and bent over Enkinor, pleased to hear restful breathing. By the flickering torchlight, he stared at Enkinor's arms, unable to believe what he saw. The scales around the sentara's elbows were gone. Little by little, Visylon pulled the gauntlets from his hands. There was no sign of the scales. Enkinor's flesh looked as tanned and tough as normal.

  Relief swept over Visylon, pushing aside the doubt, the amazement, the questions of how, and why, even the need to tell the others. And with the relief came a deep drowsiness. Still battle-weary, he sat down, intending to rise soon and wake Saeron. Instead, exhaustion claimed him once more, and he fell into a deep sleep.

  The sun had not yet risen to remind the Saerani people that life went on, that battle only meant death for some and not all, and seeing that a new day would come, it was time for new beginnings and much work.

  Enkinor woke to darkness and torchlight. He felt calm, and well. He wiggled his fingers and caught his breath. His gauntlets were no longer on his hands, but he didn't feel fish scales. He fought the urge to look at his hands and instead brought them up to clasp them over his chest. Only after he had worked up the courage to
rub them against each other and satisfy himself that the scales were gone did he give his hands a cautious glance. Reassured, he basked in the pleasure that only one freed from sorcery can really understand, stroking one hand with the other.

  Enkinor sat up. He was surprised to find Visylon snoring on the ground beside him. Ah, my good friend, I bet you fought well. He noted Visylon's white robe, and his own, and realized their significance. The tribe had expected Enkinor to die.

  The sentara stood slowly. He felt well rested despite the bruised ribs and sore, aching muscles. The cool morning air tasted as good with every breath as it did every morning at the outpost ...

  Rigalen is dead.

  The realization felt like a blow to the chest. Could it be? Was Rigalen really ambushed by the creek? Or was this another of Enkinor's feverish dreams?

  Enkinor slipped through the Saerani camp like the ghost of a departed warrior, his robe swirling behind him. No sentries saw him, for they were posted farther out, a necessary precaution in the aftermath of a devastating attack. Even now, a few Saerani khayans would be crossing the lake, keeping an eye open for more of the enemy. Enkinor padded without a sound among hastily erected tents and the still-warm ashes of fire-blackened huts till he finally found what he sought.

  You, too, my friend, are resting well, I see. May Eloeth be with you. The iron grip of grief tightened on his throat as he looked on the body of Rigalen. I will miss you.

  The dead guard lay robed in white in a large khayan constructed in Saerani fashion as a floating funeral pyre. At sunrise, the craft would be cast off, ablaze, onto Lake Cinnaril. For now, the khayan stood ringed by torches as had Enkinor's pallet. Like Enkinor, Rigalen was watched over by someone who had finally succumbed to sleep. His mother and father slumbered beside his khayan.

  “My grief could never match your own,” whispered Enkinor. Please accept my unspoken sympathies.

  Enkinor looked around him. The Saerani camp lay in death and disarray. The tribe would need every pair of hands to rebuild.

  But he knew that now was the time. He could no longer postpone the inevitable. It's happening again, and I'm powerless to stop it. A desire to learn why he had been given a gift and asked to keep it secret. A compulsion to accomplish something he couldn't even name, something he knew was out there waiting for him, pacing like an impatient traveling companion.

  Only the resari could tell him the secret of the Gauntlets. His grandfather's gift had saved his life. Enkinor had used them to hide his transformed hands, but somehow, the Gauntlets had counteracted the sorcerer's spell. Was there more to the Gauntlets than that? He had to know. Perhaps the Gauntlets would give him a means of finding and destroying the sorcerer responsible for the deaths of his friends and fellow tribesmen.

  But where will I go? Will I find the resari? Will they give me answers? Or grant me peace?

  He looked to the sky. Father, bless me.

  I must be going.

  Enkinor returned to his pallet, skirting several other khayans watched over by sleeping friends and families wrapped in blankets against the night's chill. While Visylon slept, the Saerani guard began to pack his things, grateful that all his belongings were at hand. He shed his robe for deerskin tunic and trousers and threw on a dark cloak.

  I must be going, Visylon. A different journey calls me.

  He buckled his sword and scabbard to his belt and donned his gauntlets. Enkinor knelt beside Visylon, but he did not wake the sleeping warrior.

  I must go. I hardly know why, but I must. I don't know how to explain, so I won't wake you to try. He took a deep breath. It must be this way — I can tell no one. I was charged with guarding a secret. Now, I must know why.

  Enkinor looked up at the sky and noted how different it looked from the day before. A hint of pink was beginning to spread, harbinger of dawn. He stood and shouldered his pack.

  Take care of yourself, Visylon. We will see life together again.

  Chapter 4

  The forest floor hissed with the sound of dark rain, but the only drops Aramas could see were the ones reflecting the light of his campfire.

  A canvas tarp tied between some young birches sheltered him and the fire. No matter where he sat, the smoke kept getting in his eyes. Every few minutes, he'd get up and move, pick a new place to sit, take a minute to get comfortable. Then, he'd pick up his plate to eat another bite, only to have the smoke drift in his direction again.

  Not far away in the darkness, from a bough of a venerable oak hung the carcass of a deer he had killed. Gutted and cleaned, it cast bacchanalian shadows in the firelight. The deer would provide him with plenty of venison for the markets in Kophid.

  “Hello!”

  Aramas looked up from his plate and stopped chewing. A voice like that of an old woman had called from the darkness. He stood, bending his head so it wouldn't hit the wet tarp.

  “Who's there?” he called.

  “Shelter, please,” said a weak voice, coming closer.

  Aramas sat his plate down and rubbed the smoke from his eyes. He watched a small figure shamble through the brush, leaning on a cane as she ascended the slight rise, tapping rocks that threatened to send her stumbling. Why is an old woman out in the rain, far from the nearest village? There were always tales of strange events in the Parthulian hills.

  “Grandmother, what're you doing out here? You should be home by the fire, tending your kittens.”

  The little woman took one last hesitant step and stopped. Aramas saw sparse gray hair plastered to a wet scalp. She clutched a cloak that dripped with water.

  “Peace to you, sir. I had a home, but ...” She choked on her words, her eyes brimming with tears.

  When Aramas reached her, the woman almost collapsed in his arms. She leaned on him as he brought her under the tarp and sat her on a damp log.

  The hunter hurled the contents of his mug into the wet dark. In moments he had filled it again with some hot water and herbs and placed it in her hands.

  “Here, mother, don't talk. Drink this.”

  While she sipped, he scrounged among his gear till he found a blanket that was only damp, not wet. He draped it over her bony shoulders.

  “The Draelani,” she finally managed to say, shivering. “They attacked our camp. They killed my family.” She began to weep as Aramas knelt beside her. “My son and his wife and the babies, all dead. How could they do this? Why?”

  Aramas looked down, shaking his head. It wasn't the first time he'd heard of the tribes around Lake Cinnaril fighting one another.

  “I don't know what happened,” she continued, looking out into the dark. “Maybe I fell and hit my head. They must've thought I was dead. When I came to, everyone was dead, everything gone, everything burning.”

  “You're safe here,” said Aramas. “No one will harm you. I'll make you as comfortable as I can, but it's a bad night for any of us to stay dry.”

  The old woman looked up at him through brimming eyes. “Thank you, son. Could you spare me something to eat?”

  “Of course. You must be famished.”

  Aramas used his dagger to carve off a piece of roasted venison. He speared the generous chunk with the dagger and brought it to her on his plate. He knelt beside her and smiled.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, taking the plate from his hands and gingerly pulling the blade from the hot meat. Before Aramas could stand, she buried the dagger in his shoulder.

  Aramas swung his arm, eyes wide in astonishment, knocking the crone into the fire. She cried out as her hands touched the hot coals. The blanket that had kept her dry now lay across the coals and began to smoulder.

  The old woman scrambled to her feet, and as she turned, she changed into a man wearing black leather, his red hair braided. Raethir Del watched Aramas drop to his knees and topple over.

  The sorcerer looked at his hands and gritted his teeth with pain. As the rain began to rinse the ashes away, he looked around for a puddle. Moments later, he was on his knees in the mud, hands submer
ged in cold water trapped among the rocks beneath the trees, trying without success to breathe a spell of healing.

  “Numenaara ... numenaara selir — selira …”

  Waves of pain flowed up his arms. He kept trying to choke out the vradu name of the healing spell.

  “Numen — numenaara selira vas … nu—”

  With a final cry of pain, Raethir Del collapsed and lost consciousness.

  Abramusara.

  Spell-weaver, said a voice. Have you forgotten Irsisri?

  Raethir rolled over, sore, wet. He could hear dripping, but he couldn't tell if it was still raining. He shivered with the cold and fell back into a light sleep, his burned hands throbbing.

  Do you not remember what happened at Irsisri?

  Half asleep, Raethir thought he heard a woman speaking, but he couldn't tell where the voice was coming from. He flexed his hands, trying to bury them deeper in the cold mud.

  What drives you to ignore the warnings?

  “What warnings?” he shouted, annoyed and alarmed and angry with pain.

  But he knew the answer to his question.

  He rolled back the other way and opened his eyes. The campfire was now only glowing coals hissing in the dampness.

  Proceed at your own peril, musara.

  Out of the darkness, a pair of jaws opened wide, long sharp teeth coming at his face. Raethir sat up quickly, coming fully awake even as the monstrous jaws disappeared.

  He looked around, unable to see anything in the wet night. A musky odor hung in the clearing.

  Despite his fatigue and the pain in his hands, he crawled over to the campfire to fumble for a knot of pine to light on the coals. He struggled to stand, waving the blazing knot before him, but he saw little but pooling shadows and sparkling raindrops.

  The hunter lay on his back, ashen-faced, the hilt of his own dagger sprouting from his shoulder. He tried to reach up to pull the blade free, but he could barely lift his hand. He moaned in pain, and Raethir Del silenced him with a strong kick.