"Be silent," grated Johan.

Down the wooded slope, the huntsman waved the party on. Johan's captain looked at his master with trepidation.

Johan rubbed his bony chin. With such a powerful magician as Shauku was rumored to be, anything was possible. But the likeliest explanation was that he'd been gulled. If so, he would flay the woman alive. Howsoever, Johan mustn't look fuddled before inferiors.

Waving a lank hand, he commanded, "March."

Up close, Shauku's castle got worse. Passing a column of wood-scented smoke issuing from a hole in the hill, they found a child could have mounted the rubble of the outer curtain, which was half-buried in vines turned brown by autumn frosts. Of the stout wooden gates, all that remained were heaps of sawdust reduced by ants. The courtyard sported a young forest of red pines, birches, and aspen trees, and gardens of briars. Undermined by roots, flagstones bulged every which way. The keep proper slumped like a sandcastle in a tide. Three towers had collapsed into heaps, and the fourth lacked a roof. The castle walls still standing were smothered in vines and, curiously, thousands of red and white roses. The central archway was closed by the rusty skeleton of an iron-strapped portcullis. Beyond, they saw that trees grew within some palace wings, for most of the slate roofs had collapsed, leaving only slanted beams. Evening burned the western sky to a glowing orange streaked with purple. The many columns of smoke righted themselves as the day breeze died. The only sound was a whip-poor-will piping in nearby brush.

Sitting his sedan chair in the overgrown courtyard, Johan felt anger boil in this throat like bile fit to choke. Shauku's fabulous library was a sham. He'd journeyed all this way, seeking knowledge to conquer all Jamuraa, and found a ruin that rats would eschew. Someone would die in agony.

"Milord!" The huntsman called from beyond the east tower. "An entryway!"

Still glaring, Johan waved a hand as if expecting this news. The barbarian bearers threaded trees. Johan's captain pointed with his pike at something the mage had missed.

"A path, milord. Someone lives above ground, at least."

The eastern tower was intact, if roofless. Rounding the tower, Johan saw weathered stone bound with rotten mortar. Vines had been yanked away from a low entryway, a tiny sally port once reinforced with double doors. The beaten path crossed the threshold. The passageway should have been black but instead glowed softly with gray twilight since the roof was gone.

Silhouetted at the passageway's end stood a guard, or a statue.

The entourage trudged to a halt, weary from a day's long march. Barbarians waited for orders, dumb and patient as oxen. Cursing inwardly, Johan ordered his chair lowered.

Stepping to canted cobblestones, Johan let fall his monk's disguise. Like a-candle flickering to life, he took on color and substance. Skin glowed vivid red laced with black tattoos, a horn jutted from his bony chin, two more horns downcurved from his temples to frame his raddled face. A robe of purple lizard skin hugged his gaunt form like a living parasite. His hands and bare feet and chest were also red and tattooed. This was Johan's true face, stamped by sorcery, fearful and alien, commanding and cruel. The myriad tattoos were his own doing, designed to intimidate and draw attention to his face. Other features, such as blood-red skin and horns, were accidental by-products of dabbling in black arts. Yet any well-versed mage would see immediately that Johan had juggled arcane and mystic mana and survived, so he would command respect. Inspiring awe and fear was all the wizard cared about. Now, shrugging his purple robes about his shoulders, he would mystify Shauku-if she were here. If not, he'd level this wreck once and for all.

"I'll go alone." None of his party dared question, so stood mute.

On bare feet, Johan padded down the dark passage toward the eerie silent guardian. Up close, he recognized the garb: black reptilian armor overhung with a yellow gypon emblazoned with a startling red sun. A black helmet bore only a slit exposing cold eyes and painted yellow vees suggesting bumblebee stripes. The man stood with a lean sword unsheathed and propped before a shield like a black kite. An Akron Legionnaire, Johan knew, elite troopers recruited from Corondor. Expensive to maintain as a flotilla of ships or a stable of fine racehorses. Johan wondered idly if the soldiers stoked the underground fires that dribbled smoke.

The guard issued no challenge, and for a second Johan thought he was ensorcelled, but the man's chest rose and fell. Since the guard showed no surprise at his arrival, Johan calculated, the soldiers must have spotted the party from the battlements or even in the forest. Johan would flog his huntsman halfdead for failing to spy lookouts.

Imperious, Johan announced, "I would see your master, Lady Shauku."

"You are?" rapped the guard.

"Johan, Tyrant of Tirras and Emperor of the Northern Realms."

The legionnaire lifted his sword to his eye slit in a salute, as if diplomatic visits to this wilderness occurred daily. Turning smartly, the guard called in some foreign tongue. From a distance marched an identical man who beckoned Johan to follow.

The castle's indoors was same as outdoors. Walls rose sheer for three stories, but the roof wore only seven arching beams against a sunset sky. Pines and aspen trees grew high as the walls. Broken flagstones were jumbled with broken roof slates under a carpet of leaves. Rusted iron hooks still held gray poles where war banners had rotted away. At each end yawned vast fireplaces big enough to roast an ox, though bricks had fallen. At one end, square doors led to the kitchen. In comers, windblown dirt let thrive more roses and briars and weeds. Johan saw swallows zip in a window, circle once, and flit out again. Once this mead hall housed some lord's family, a home lively with drink and dance and music and laughter. Now it housed insects and birds.

And one occupant.

At the far end stood an immense dining table, once grand, now cracked and water stained. Behind the table on a wide stool sat the most beautiful woman Johan had ever seen.

Black hair was glossy with sunset highlights. A golden face with pointed chin featured sky-blue slanted eyes wide and innocent. She wore a simple layered gown of satin so blue it appeared black, unadorned. Before her sat a plate with only grape stems and seeds and a silver goblet of spring water.

The legionnaire stamped to a halt, saluted elaborately with sword to visor, and announced the visitor. The lady smiled dimly, interested but uncurious.

Flummoxed but refusing to show it, Johan pretended all was normal. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Lady Shauku?"

"Yes." Soft and musical. "Emperor Johan. Welcome. I'm so glad you came."

Johan wasn't. But he nodded, face frozen in a polite smile.

Something was very wrong.

Adira Strongheart revived because she was freezing.

Wind sucked and slobbered at her wet hair and chilled her lax body. Every gust set her teeth chattering, but she couldn't move to get warm. People carped to hold still until she wanted to lash out and thump someone. Gradually words filtered through the fog infesting her brain.

"Not much seaway, so b-bear down! H-help me h-hold her, she's prickly as a s-s-sea robin! J-Jedit, will you?"

Adira was mashed by a sopping wet arm big as a rolled carpet. Spray stung her face, a salt chill. All this water, she fretted. Surely the ship must be sinking. Then she recalled and her eyes flew open.

"Wh'where are we?" Her lips could barely move, she was so cold. Her hand throbbed too, as if a shark gnawed it.

"M-marooned," chattered Wilemina.

"S-soon to d-die," added Simone.

Even awake, Adira couldn't see. The night sky was streaks of dark and darker gray. Wind howled all around. Spume from breaking waves spattered them like rain. Adira tried to turn, but couldn't.