Curiously enough, it did not occur to him that he might fail. He was young enough yet to have confidence in his abilities, and scant few challenges had defied him. He reached for and grasped the bolt in both hands, as if it were the hilt of a sword. He concentrated, letting the shaft move in his grip. As his hands tightened, they moved with it.

He got a sense of how shallow the wound really was. The bolt had continued to twist after it entered, but not too much. The buckle had warped the broadhead, limiting the damage. He sensed its path of entry, felt how much play it had, and slowly began to reverse its course.

It came-not easily or fast, but it came-sliding from the muscle and flesh. Tyressa cried out and batted a hand against the Viruk’s abdomen, but Rekarafi held her down tightly and nodded at Ciras to continue. He did, working gently, feeling the shaft come free. Then it hung up-catching on something-so he pressed down, sliding a corner of broadhead beneath the impediment. Another twist, a little tug, and he plucked it free.

Ciras reeled back, half-faint from exhaustion, half-propelled by Borosan. The other man washed the wound, then pressed a bandage down over it while he threaded a needle. He carefully sewed the wound shut, then bandaged Tyressa’s belly. Only when he’d finished did Rekarafi lean back.

The Gloon nodded from his perch. “She will survive. At least a little longer.”

It took six hours for Tyressa to awaken, but in that time Borosan and Ciras had traveled deep enough into the cavern to find the narrow crack through which Keles Anturasi and Tyressa had climbed. Darkness had fallen by the time Ciras emerged on the top of a hill, but he used a small lantern to inspect the place. Though dust on the rock had not been too deep, it yielded enough tracks to let him puzzle out what had likely happened to their companion.

Back in the cavern, washed clean of muck and changed into cleaner clothes, Ciras sat near the Viruk, with his back to a bier. “It was three men. They’d stopped and had a small fire burning. One of them shot Tyressa. There were signs of a fight, but it appears Keles lost. They also had horses. I don’t know who they are, really, but in their haste to run, they left a small pouch behind.”

Rekarafi caught it when Ciras tossed it to him. The Viruk sniffed. “Saamgar.”

Ciras nodded. “Moon-blossom tea. We have it on Tirat and use it when real tea is not available. The Desei live on it.”

Borosan squatted beside him. “You think the men who took Keles are from Deseirion?”

“It’s a logical conclusion.”

“Then you revere logic not at all.” Rekarafi let the pouch swing slowly, trapped between two talons. “You had decided the raiders we chased through the Wastes were Desei. You have now decided that those men and the kidnappers are one and the same.”

“You have no proof they are not.”

“No, Lirserrdin, I do not. Nor have you any to suggest they are. However, would you think Prince Pyrust such a fool as to task raiders with both collecting thaumston and relics and capturing Keles Anturasi? Were you he, would you not give the latter task to those you knew could do it well?”

Ciras started to argue but held his tongue. The Viruk’s words made good sense. Moreover, if Pyrust had known the details of Keles’ trip, he would have dispatched many teams to find him since the Wastes were so vast.

“Your point is well-taken.” Ciras bowed his head respectfully. “In the morning, if you will open the cavern, I will take a horse out, find them, and bring Keles Anturasi back.”

The Gloon laughed, rolling back on the top of a sarcophagus. The Viruk smiled, a brief glimmer coming to his eyes. “You will not be going after Keles.”

“But it is my duty. My master and I were charged with keeping him safe. I must.”

“But you will not. Ask Urardsa; he knows. The thread of your life and that of Keles Anturasi may again intersect, but it is not in the immediate future.” The Viruk examined his claws. “I will be going after him. I know he yet lives, and I know the direction they are traveling.”

Ciras frowned. “How?”

“You’ve forgotten. My claws have drunk of his blood.” Rekarafi’s hand curled into a fist. “Because I struck him in error, it is my duty to find him and save him, so I shall.”

“And what of me?”

The Gloon recovered himself and perched once again on the edge of the marble box. “Yours is the most perilous journey. With Borosan Gryst, you will travel north and west, deeper into Ixyll.”

“But they are going the other way. No matter who took him, they are going back to civilization, not away from it.”

“You will find, Ciras Dejote, that the fate of Keles Anturasi is a minor thing. The fate of the world will depend on how successful you are on your mission.” The Gloon looked away for a moment, then all of his eyes closed. “There is a chance-slender and fleeting-that you will succeed.”

Ciras swallowed hard, hating how his mouth dried with fear. “And what is my mission?”

“You will go into the heart of Ixyll and beyond.” The Gloon’s eyes opened and fixed on him. “You will find where Empress Cyrsa has lain sleeping for seven centuries. If you are able, you will waken her. If you are persuasive, you may even convince her to save the world she left behind.”

10th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Dolosan

His horse’s rapid descent of the hill pounded Keles Anturasi into his saddle. The jolts hammered his body and started his right shoulder throbbing again. It had been two days previous that he had broken his collarbone, but it seemed like forever. Once his captors had him, they had bound his arm tight to his chest and started riding hard.

The pain had distracted him, so he couldn’t be sure of his actual location, but it seemed deeper in Ixyll than he thought they’d gone. He smiled. My grandfather would have my hide if I admitted I was lost. Such a thing would be unthinkable.

The Anturasi of Nalenyr were the unquestioned and unrivaled masters of cartography. Qiro, Keles’ grandfather, oversaw a workshop of cousins, nephews, nieces, and grandsons that turned out the finest charts in the world. Ships using Anturasi charts almost never ran into navigational problems, and returned from their voyages with treasures beyond imagining. Keles and his brother, Jorim, had engaged in some of the most comprehensive and difficult survey operations ever mounted, returning with information that improved those charts and filled the family’s coffers to bursting.

Anyone but Qiro would have been happy with the family fortunes, but the patriarch desired mastery over the world. He wanted to know everything about it, and so had dispatched his grandsons on dangerous expeditions. Jorim had sailed the Stormwolf into the Eastern Sea to discover what lay there. Keles had been sent to Ixyll, to survey the land of wild magic to see if the path west had finally opened.

Keles’ survey had been successful as far as it got. Through his mystical link with his grandfather he had been able to communicate information that expanded the maps being drawn back in Moriande, Nalenyr’s capital. Though the link hardly promoted full communication, Keles had been able to sense his grandfather’s pleasure at the information he had gleaned.

At this point, even his grandfather’s ire would have been welcome, but Keles had not been given a chance to communicate with him. His captors-admitted agents of Prince Pyrust, the ruler of Deseirion-had pushed him hard in the ride from Ixyll. They met up with other small bands-some in Desei employ, some just scavengers in the Wastes-trading for horses and supplies. The four of them had already killed a horse apiece through hard riding, and between exhaustion and the pain of his shoulder, Keles had been unable to concentrate enough to open the link with his grandfather.