Dizzily, he rolled over and looked back uphill. He saw Madislav staring at the princess, a deep scowl on his face. “I did not know you were a mage,” the Vos said in a menacing voice.

Seriene still stood between the horses, near the hill’s crest.

There was fear on her face, but she controlled it. “Nor had I thought you might study the art,” she replied. “Or are you really Madislav at all?”

The Vos boomed laughter. “You are not thinking that I am being someone else in here?” he said. With deliberation, he began another enchantment, letting the ancient words roll forth in a resounding cadence. Seriene began one of her own, her voice high, shrill, and desperate. A heartbeat later, the night was split by a brilliant flash of light as a great bolt of lightning stabbed at Seriene with a crackling roar. But the spell did not strike her, as an invisible shield parried the blow and sent it streaking wide. Beside her, both horses reared in panic, and she ducked out of the way of their flailing hooves.

In that instant, Bannier sprang like a tiger, surging up the hill in three great bounds. Seriene saw him charging and started to bark out the words of another spell, but Bannier hammered her with one colossal fist. The sorceress spun and fell, knocked senseless by the blow. “Fight wizards with swords, and fight swords with wizardry,” he remarked. He glanced down the hill at where Gaelin was just now regaining his feet. “Don’t leave yet, Gaelin. We’ve places to go, you and I.” He raised his hands, preparing another spell.

Gaelin stood unsteadily, one hand clamped over the burning wounds in the middle of his body, his sword still in his hand. The Vos was still more than fifty feet away, and uphill at that; he’d never reach him in time to prevent the spell, and he couldn’t throw his sword with any accuracy. He took a step forward and demanded, “Who are you? What have you done with Madislav?”

Bannier paused, his hands still ready with the spell. Behind him, the horses still plunged and danced, whinnying in fright. He grinned at Gaelin. “This body is indeed Madislav, but I am not,” he said. “The barbarian’s mind is entrapped in a gem in my stronghold, and my own body sleeps there too.”

“Bannier,” breathed Gaelin. “I should have known.”

“Your observation is correct,” Bannier said. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I need to deprive you of your powers of movement and speech.” He raised his hands again.

For an instant, Gaelin was transfixed by panic. Then he cried out, “Blackbrand! Kick!”

Behind Bannier, the great black war-horse reared and lashed out with his hooves, hammering the Vos with a pair of crushing blows. One hoof clipped the side of Bannier’s head, and he pitched forward, rolling down the hillside in a nerveless tangle of arms and legs. He came to a stop spread-eagled on his back, a few yards away from Gaelin. Even before he stopped sliding, Gaelin was standing over him, sword poised at his friend’s throat. Blood streamed down the side of Bannier’s face. “Bannier! Release your hold on Madislav, or I swear by Haelyn, I’ll – ”

“You’ll what?” coughed Bannier weakly. “Run your friend through? Open his throat, instead? What will you do, Gaelin?” Bannier’s eyes were unfocused and filming, and his arms and legs trembled uselessly.

Gaelin blinked, still holding the sword at his throat. Tears blurred his vision. “I’ll cut his tongue out before I let you speak another spell with his mouth,” he promised darkly.

Bannier managed a weak chuckle. “Don’t bother. You’ve broken his back. Can’t move. And my head feels funny… this body’s ruined, I think.”

Gaelin dropped to his knees, still threatening Madislav with the sword. “Be damned to Azrai’s hells, then, Bannier. If Madislav dies, he’ll be glad to know you’re dying with him!”

“Sorry, Gaelin… doesn’t work that way. My own body’s just fine… I’ll be back there in a flash, faster than thought… though you’ve parried this thrust nicely.”

Gaelin’s voice broke in a heaving sob. “Damn you! Why?”

“Needed the Mhoried bloodline.” With a great effort, Bannier held off dying for a few more minutes, his eyes burning brightly in Madislav’s sagging face.

“Bannier, you were my friend, my teacher! How could you do this to my family?”

“If you’d continued your studies, I would have shown you marvels, Gaelin. Terrors and glories unimaginable. I made a bargain, and the Mhorieds were the price I was to pay.” He sagged back, blood welling up in his mouth. “Listen to me, Gaelin. I have your sister. And I’m growing tired of trying to catch you. Surrender yourself to me, or she will die in ways that you can’t even imagine. It’s you I want. Give up, and I’ll let her go. I’ll even make sure Tuorel never finds her.” He coughed and spat blood. “I swear by the Face of Evil that she’ll die by the next full moon if you don’t leave this place and come to me.” His eyes burned intensely into Gaelin’s own for a moment and then began to fade. “Your choice, Gaelin,” he breathed, and fell still.

Gaelin looked up as Seriene slid down the hillside toward him. An ugly purple bruise was already forming on her jaw.

She knelt beside him, and looked up at his face. “Gaelin, I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

He cradled Madislav’s head in his lap and leaned forward, tears falling on the warrior’s face. There was one brief flicker of life, the eyes opened, and for a moment the old Madislav was looking up at him. The expression, the cast of his eyes -

Gaelin knew at a glance his friend had returned. Madislav breathed softly, “Gaelin?”

“Madislav! You’re back!” Gaelin tried to show him a reassuring smile, but he bowed his head instead, weeping.

“Bannier is dead?”

“No. He said that he’d return to his own body when…”

Gaelin couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I saw his stronghold. He took me into the Shadow World.” Madislav’s voice was growing weak. “He has Ilwyn… it is a cold place, Gaelin. I am glad I am not being there.”

“We’ll find a priest, Madislav, one of the Haelynites who knows the healing spells!” Gaelin started to pick him up, to carry him to help. “Don’t give up!”

“Burn my body, Gaelin, in the Vos way,” the warrior whispered.

“Destevnye duma, my friend.”

Gaelin laid Madislav back to the ground and turned away.

He knelt in the cold, wet grass of the hillside, his hands over his eyes. After a long time, Seriene put her hand on his shoulder.

“Come, Gaelin. It’s time for us to go.”

In the days that followed, Gaelin wandered the weathered battlements of Caer Winoene, pacing the castle’s walls like an animal measuring the dimensions of a cage. He realized that Bannier had deliberately avoided him except for a few brief conversations; the true Madislav had been absent for weeks.

Over and over, he replayed the confrontation on the hillside in his mind’s eye, trying to imagine how it might have gone differently.

In accordance with the custom of the Vos, Gaelin burned Madislav’s body on a pyre two days after his death, as the moon was rising over the shadowed hills. Gaelin himself set the pile to flame, and he stayed hours after most of the others had left, watching the twisting pall of smoke curling up into the starry sky. It was also a tradition of the Vos to watch over a warrior’s pyre until sunrise, and Gaelin stood by in silence all through the cold night.

As the sky was lightening in the east, Gaelin’s reverie was broken by the arrival of Seriene. She rode up and stopped a respectful distance from the bier, dismounting and leaving her horse with her guards. Since Bannier’s attack, both Gaelin and Seriene had been much more carefully watched by their respective bodyguards, allowing them little time alone with each other.

Seriene was dressed in fine riding clothes, a warm fur cloak wrapped around her shoulders. She paused for a respectful moment of silence and asked quietly, “Am I intruding? ”