He found his heart pounding as he leaned against the crenelated wall. I need to sleep, he realized, or I’ll be no good to anyone.

Still, he hesitated before going inside. The battlement was cold and lonely, but it was a good place to think. He’d leave Thendiere to manage the court, since his oldest son’s leg was still not sufficiently healed for hard campaigning. The arrangement would also keep Mhoried’s heir in relative safety while Daeric rode against Ghoere in the south. Now, with warfare in the northlands as well, he needed Gaelin to lead the fight against the goblins.

Bowing his head, the Mhor breathed a silent prayer for Gaelin’s swift and safe return.

In one corner of Bannier’s conjuring chamber there stood a strange shadow that never disappeared entirely, no matter how the dim sunlight or the guttering oil lamps illuminated the cluttered chamber. Even as the Mhor’s guardsmen hammered their sword hilts against the door to the wizard’s tower, the shadow rippled and suddenly yawned deeper and colder. The dying red sunlight faded into umber gloom, disappearing into the hungry darkness, and in silence a lean, robed form appeared and stepped from the shadow. Tired and cold, Bannier closed the portal, and the dark door was only a shadow again.

The wizard’s entire frame trembled in exhaustion, and he could no longer feel his hands and feet from a pervasive, bone-numbing cold. While the Shadow World was never a safe or certain passage, even in the best of times, it did allow those who knew its twisted paths to travel at amazing speeds.

In the span of a day, Bannier had walked from the shores of the Maesil to his tower in Shieldhaven. It had taken a decade for the wizard to learn how to navigate the regions of the Shadow World that touched on his dark doorway in Shield- haven. Only the most skilled of sorcerers – and the halflings, who were somehow connected with the Shadow World – matched Bannier’s knowledge.

From below, the pounding on his door resumed. Bannier frowned in distaste. If the fools tried to break it down, they’d regret it, but deaths of a magical nature certainly wouldn’t endear him to the Mhor, who had probably been ransacking the castle looking for him since word of the invasion arrived.

Bannier needed the Mhor’s trust for a few hours more. Before answering the door, however, he took a small vial from a locked cabinet and downed the contents. The elixir warmed and refreshed him, dispelling his exhaustion and restoring vitality to his palsied limbs.

With a deep breath, Bannier circled down the stairs to his sitting room. He could hear the voices of the guards outside, debating whether they should seek the Mhor’s permission to break down the wizard’s door. “Can’t have that,” he muttered to himself. Striding across the room, he threw open the bolts, disarmed the magical traps with a word, and opened the door.

Four of Shieldhaven’s guards stood outside, led by a young officer. The wizard’s sudden appearance startled them all, and the soldiers recoiled a step. “Yes?” Bannier asked confidently.

“How may I be of service to you, lieutenant?”

The officer exchanged a wary glance with the sergeant of the guard, and then considered Bannier with an openly suspicious look. “Begging your pardon, Lord Bannier, but the Mhor requests your presence immediately.”

“Of course. Please, lead the way.”

Without a word, the officer turned and started off, the soldiers flanking Bannier to either side. There was a time, years ago, when Shieldhaven’s guards and servants had been more open and friendly, Bannier thought. It seemed to him that he’d been greeted with smiles and pleasant words in the days before he expanded his research. Were the people he’d known before gone, or had they grown resentful of his presence?

Whatever the reason, the black looks he received as they headed for the Mhor’s study made it easier for Bannier to contemplate the bargain he had made. People were ephemeral, but power – magical power, not the trappings of office or rule – that was a much more tangible comfort.

They arrived at the mahogany-panelled royal quarters in short order. The wizard was surprised to see a pair of fully armored guards standing before the door, swords bared. It seemed the Mhor was taking few chances. Inside, he found Mhor Daeric leaning over a map of Mhoried, with his first son, Prince Thendiere, by his side, and old Tiery as well. The Mhor glanced up, and his expression hardened. “Bannier,” he said. “We’ve sorely missed your counsel the past two days. I assume you’ve heard of Ghoere’s attack?”

Bannier chose his words carefully. “Indeed I have, my lord.

I have just returned from the Maesil.” When he put his mind to it, the Mhor possessed an uncanny ability to discern the truth of a person’s words. It was one of the signs of the Mhoried blood, a gift inherited from his ancestors. With a grimace, Bannier suppressed a quick flash of jealousy that coiled through his heart. He would have the Mhorieds’ power soon enough.

The Mhor’s brow furrowed at Bannier’s words and expression.

“What were you doing there?”

“Ghoere’s army had magical aid in crossing the Maesil,”

Bannier said. “You must have noted the unnatural cold we’ve had this spring. Sorcery froze the river, and Tuorel crossed on foot.”

“That confirms our reports,” said Thendiere. He was a tall, thin man of about thirty. He had the Mhor’s height but his mother’s slightness of build. Thendiere’s face was guarded, with a cautious intelligence glinting in his eyes. He leaned heavily on a thick wooden cane, and as he shifted position Bannier noted that his right leg was immobilized by a splint under his loose-fitting breeches. “I didn’t think that Tuorel commanded the allegiance of a wizard powerful enough to cast such a spell. There can’t be more than a handful in all Anuire with that much strength.”

Bannier bowed his head. “You are correct, Prince Thendiere. I know the wizard called the Sword Mage aided Tuorel in his war against Elinie. He often visits Ghoere’s court.”

The Mhor paced away from the table, hands clasped behind his back. Despite the fatigue of nearly two days of meetings, councils of war, diplomatic messages, and other endless tasks, he still presented an appearance of calm dignity and strength. Even his gray tunic was carefully pressed. He stopped by the window, gazing out over the snow-capped battlements of the castle. “Bannier, we have been allies for thirteen years now,” he said quietly. “I have provided you with wealth, comfort, and prestige in exchange for your invaluable advice and assistance in magical matters. I know few wizards as competent as you. If the Sword Mage is using his sorcery to aid Ghoere’s armies, I must have your skills to defend my own forces.”

“You sound as though you doubt me, my lord.”

Mhor Daeric looked over his shoulder, one eye fixing the wizard where he stood. “Bannier, you left without notice at a time when I desperately needed your counsel. As it turns out, you probably did exactly what I would have wanted of you in exploring Tuorel’s method of invasion, but the point remains that I had no idea where you were. In fact, in recent years I’ve seen less and less of you. I know you’re no liegeman of mine, but I expect some degree of loyalty from you.”

“My studies have consumed much of my time,” Bannier answered, truthfully enough. “And, to be honest, with Mhoried at peace there’s been little for me to advise you about. Dealing with Markazor’s raids or Alamie’s troubles wouldn’t have been the best use of my time.”

The Mhor held his eye for a long moment, studying Bannier’s face. Despite himself, Bannier grew uncomfortable beneath his unwavering gaze. Finally, the Mhor looked away, and Bannier began to relax. Then Tiery spoke up from the corner of the room. “How did you know to go to the Maesil?”