And a silence as final as death fell on the sere hillside.

Aeron lay on the cold road, exhausted, starving, his gut aching with violent nausea. But he did not feel the stone's touch in him anymore.

He looked down at his hands and noticed that an odd rose-and-orange glow was staining his flesh, his robes. It puzzled him for a moment, and then he realized that he was seeing the first light of morning shining on him, although it touched nothing else yet in the gloom of the shadow land. He glanced to the east, watching as the sunrise dispelled the preternatural darkness.

The sunlight touched him, but it brought no warmth. Weakness assailed him, and he collapsed to his hands and knees, every last reserve of his strength suddenly depleted beyond hope of restoration.

He found himself kneeling in a broad farm field sown with young corn. A long line of dark trees sketched the horizon, rising and falling in gentle hills and deep dells that Aeron knew like the back of his hand-Maerchlin. With the last of his strength, he snorted in amazement. "I'm home," he whispered. Then he collapsed into the rich, wet earth.

Raedel's soldiers found Aeron before the sun had risen an hour into the sky.

Twelve

Aeron was dragged through the village and into the castle's gaping mouth by a squad of mailed soldiers. They spared him no discomfort, manhandling him with angry shoves and cuffs to his head as if he'd been a struggling berserker. At first Aeron almost welcomed their attention; each blow confirmed his escape from the plane of shadow and reminded him of his reality.

The guards wasted no time in bringing him before Phoros Raedel, in the musty, oak-paneled great hall. The room was crowded with the men-at-arms and retainers of the Raedels and a handful of village leaders who had business with the count this morning. The conversation died away as Aeron was led into the room.

Phoros Raedel rose from the high seat, openly amazed. "Morieth!" he stated, his face slack. The young lord had filled out in the two years since Aeron had last seen him; some of his hard-won muscle was settling around his waist, and his face, once chiseled and clean, seemed more florid now. But the strength of his arms and the cruelty in his eyes remained, and a wide smile of satisfaction spread across his features as he slowly approached. "Oh, how I've dreamed of this moment. My sight was gone for a month before my father found a priest who could undo your spell."

Aeron drew himself up and met the count's glare with a calm gaze. "I did what I had to do. You'd have killed Kestrel if I hadn't acted." He hesitated, then added, "I didn't want you for an enemy, Phoros."

"You didn't want me for an enemy?" Raedel brayed harsh laughter. "Regos still carries the scar you left when you laid open his arm. Miroch you burned alive. You bewitched my guardsmen, and you blinded me! And now you're sorry for it?"

Aeron waited until Raedel had stopped laughing. Familiar or not, Phoros still meant him no good. He bit back an angry retort, the old scar across the top of his left ear aching as if to remind him of how his feud with the young lord had begun. "I only sought to protect myself and those I love. I don't regret saving Eriale from Miroch's attentions or helping Kestrel to escape from your dungeons, but I wish it had never been necessary."

Raedel blinked. He studied Aeron for a long moment, eyes narrowed. "You've changed," he said at last.

"I've little fight left in me," Aeron replied.

The young count held his gaze for a long time before looking away to the guards. "Take him away," he said. "He's guilty of raising his hand against a lord, sedition, sorcery, and a dozen other charges. He'll hang tomorrow morning."

"One favor, Raedel?" Aeron said.

Phoros wheeled on him, astonished. "You want to ask a favor of me? Are you insane?"

"Pardon Kestrel and Eriale. You only arrested them to catch me."

"Pardon them? Why? They're rebels and traitors, fugitives from my dungeons!"

"Now that you have me, let them go," Aeron said.

Phoros scowled. "What does it matter if I pardon them or not? They fled Maerchlin two years ago."

"They never did anything wrong, Phoros. It's not right for them to be outlaws on my account."

The count weighed Aeron's words and abruptly agreed. "Very well. Kestrel and Eriale are pardoned, for what it's worth." He waved his hand at Aeron's guards, dismissing them. "Be careful with Morieth. He is a skillful sorcerer. Keep his hands bound, and keep a hood over his head. And I want him guarded around the clock by two swordsmen in his cell. He will not walk out of my dungeons again."

The guards dragged him away to the castle's cells. They grudgingly spared him some food, so before the hood went over his head, Aeron gnawed at a piece of tough black bread and washed it down with cold water. He felt much better for it, and by the time he finished, he felt simply tired instead of exhausted beyond his limits.

Aeron didn't even consider escape. With all of his magic expended, he did not stand a chance against the guards whom Raedel had posted over him. And even if he still had some magic left, he wasn't sure that he would have been able to wield the Weave without drawing on the power of the Shadow Stone; even to save his own life, he was unwilling to do that. So Aeron closed his eyes and slept dreamlessly, still trying to rest from his ordeal.

He was awakened late in the day by a guard poking his foot into his ribs. "You've got visitors," he said.

Aeron shook his head, wondering why he couldn't see, and then he remembered the hood. "Who is it?" he asked.

"Aeron? Is it really you?" Eriale knelt down beside him and held him tight, her voice cracking with emotion. "We feared we'd never see you again!"

"Aye, lad. Where have you been? We've sent a dozen letters to the college, but they knew nothing of your whereabouts." Kestrel's strong hands clasped his shoulders.

"Step away from the prisoner," said one of the guards. "The count ordered no contact." Steel rasped on leather as the fellow drew his blade to emphasize his point.

Reluctantly Eriale released him, and Kestrel's hands fell away. Aeron sensed them shuffling back a few steps. He shook his head again, trying to clear the cobwebs. "What time of day is it? I've been asleep."

"It's about an hour before midnight. We came as quickly as we could," Kestrel said.

Aeron thought for a moment. "It's a half-day's ride from your new home. How did you know I was here?"

"You remember Toric and Shiela Goldsheaf," Eriale said. "When Toric heard of your return, and the count's pardon for Father and me, he borrowed the fastest horse in the village and set out for my homestead. I've never ridden so fast in my life."

"I didn't think you'd risk setting foot in Maerchlin again," Aeron said quietly. "The count might revoke his pardon." He heard a soft, choked sob. "Eriale? Are you all right?"

There was a long pause before she answered, and her voice was taut. "Yes, I'm fine. It just doesn't seem fair that we've finally seen you again, but you're to hang tomorrow."

For the first time, the weight of Phoros's sentence crashed down on Aeron. It might have been a mundane death compared to what would have happened to him in the shadow, but it was still death, now only a few hours away. Aeron had forgotten what it was like to be powerless and blind. With his magic, he could have escaped from his bonds in a dozen different ways. "It's better than what might have happened to me," he said softly.

"What do you mean, Aeron?" asked Kestrel.

Aeron sighed. "It doesn't matter now, I guess." He wanted to tell them something about his experiences in the college, to explain how he'd come to be in Raedel's dungeons, but he couldn't bring himself to speak of it. "I learned a lot at the college, and I threw myself into my studies. But patience was never my strong suit, and I became involved in dangerous lore. One of my spells went wrong, and here I am. I'm lucky to have survived the experience, I think."