Miya waved back. In her other hand, she held the empty leather box.

Like a stone falling into a quiet pool, the conquest of Juramona sent ripples of fear and excitement across the empire and beyond. Fear filled the hearts of ordinary Ergothians.

The nomad army was an army in only the loosest sense of the word. The disparate tribes were held together by a common desire for victory against the empire that had taken lands across which nomads once had roamed freely-that, and a desire for plunder. Their heady success induced many nomads to dream of taking the greater cities of the south and west, such as Caergoth and Thorngoth. The imperial army, hammered by the bakali at the bend of the Solvin River, was nowhere to be found in the Eastern Hundred.

Spring gave way to summer’s heat. The vast open country of the Eastern and Mountain hundreds baked under the remorseless sun. Towering fortresses of cloud, sculpted white against the steamy blue sky, sailed overhead but yielded no rain. The dry season was upon the land, the time of dust and fire.

Tol and his two friends emerged from the Great Green into the midday glare of the sun. They stepped out of the trees and into the great open field known to the Dom-shu as the Lake of Flowers, and to the Ergothians as-

“Zivilyn’s Carpet,” Egrin exclaimed, surprised to find himself back where he’d first entered the forest. “Did you bring us here on purpose?”

“I just followed my nose,” said Tol, shrugging.

Kiya, swabbing her face with a piece of homespun, had a different view. “The gods led you here,” she said firmly. “It’s a good omen!”

The sunlit meadow was dense with a fog of pollen and the perfume of a thousand wildflowers. The air was thick as well with flying things-honey bees, bumblebees, butterflies of every hue, and tiny, ruby-throated needlebirds.

Kiya unslung her bow. Without the cover of the trees they were vulnerable, and she had no intention of being surprised.

A morning glory caught Tol’s eye. Its purple petals were streaked with white. A tapestry hanging near the library in the imperial palace depicted that same flower. In a flash of memory, Tol saw Valaran passing before it, her head down as she perused an academic tome.

Shaking off the image, and the memory of her voice calling to him in his vision, Tol set out across the meadow at a trot. Egrin and Kiya jogged to catch up, neither seeing any reason for such hurry.

Tol increased his pace until he was running flat out. Sweat poured off him. It stung his eyes and pooled where his swordbelt gathered his jerkin close to his skin. Without warning, he stumbled, his feet tangling in a bed of thick vines. He fell hard onto hands and knees, and his pack went flying. Sweat from his face dripped onto purple blossoms crushed beneath his fingers. More morning glories.

Now Valaran’s face appeared before him. She asked, “Are you coming? Tol, I need you!”

Her desperate plea echoed her earlier words to him, the vision he’d had while hunting in the forest… He stood and a wave of dizziness washed over him, setting the sky to spinning. Before him, a path appeared in the dense carpet of wild-flowers. The plants weren’t trampled. They simply parted of their own volition, leaving a clear trail three steps wide.

Kiya and Egrin reached him.

“Are you all right?” Egrin asked.

“You’re talking gibberish,” added Kiya, handing him his pack.

As soon as Tol took the pack from her, the strange dizziness vanished and the heaving sky calmed. The trail through the foliage melted away.

Tol shoved his bundle back into Kiya’s hands. The weird dizziness resumed, and the path across Zivilyn’s Carpet appeared again, the plants swaying gently apart.

Strange magic was once again at work. The nullstone was in his pack, and while he carried it he couldn’t see the trail. When the nullstone’s influence was removed, the trail was revealed.

Senses still reeling, Tol tried to explain what was happening. Both Egrin and Kiya were concerned, but Tol insisted, “It’s her. She calls me!”

Unsteadily, he set off, leading them along a trail only he could see. Valaran did not appear to him again. Kiya and Egrin followed warily, she with arrow nocked and he with sword drawn.

The path continued for a league or more, and the flowers of Zivilyn’s Carpet gave way to the waist-high grass of the plains. Except for the stiff, dry grass, the land looked much as it did around Juramona-low, rolling hills separated by the flat floodplains of ancient, long-dry rivers. The few trees were small and widely spaced. Good terrain for horsemen; bad for fighters on foot.

When the path dwindled to a mere shadow in the tall grass, Tol slowly came to a stop. The dizzy sensation of magic had faded, but in the distance, the same direction in which the trail had been leading, he saw a thin column of smoke rising.

His companions saw it as well. By its color, they knew it came from a wood fire, and not smoldering grass. Why burn a campfire by day, and in such warm weather? The smoke was bound to draw attention for leagues in all directions. Although his friends advised against it, Tol led them toward the distant plume.

After a time, a shift in the wind brought more than the smell of woodsmoke to them. It also brought the sound of voices. Tol drew his saber, but kept going. The phantom trail had pointed directly at the smoke plume and he was determined to find out why.

He sent Egrin out in a wide circle to the left, and Kiya to the right. He approached straight on. His tan buckskins blended well with the waving grass. Using the stealth he’d learned during his years in the forest, he crept up on the unseen speakers. One voice (he couldn’t tell whether male or female) was doing most of the talking. Wood clattered on wood, and a fire crackled and popped loudly.

Tol halted abruptly, cursing himself for a fool. There was only one voice ahead-a stalking horse, one of the oldest ruses in the world! The fire and the speaker could be bait to lure the unwary.

A rustling behind him brought Tol whirling around. Not giving his unseen opponent time to attack first, he ran forward. Just as he neared a screen of tall bushes, a sword-wielding figure exploded from cover.

Smaller than Tol, and covered by a hooded cape, the figure parried Number Six’s savage cuts. The figure gave ground, skillfully using the available cover to his own advantage and dodging out of reach.

Tol leveled his saber at the fellow and demanded, “Who are you? Ergoth? Or nomad?”

The figure lifted a hand and pushed back his tan hood. Tol realized “he” was a “she,” and a half-elf to boot. Dark eyes regarded Tol warily.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“A cautious man. My comrades are in your camp. We mean you no harm. Lower your sword, if you’re not an enemy.”

Slowly, she did so, and Tol likewise dropped his point. He gestured at her to precede him. She moved past, wary as a cat.

They arrived at the campfire, built next to a mossy log, to find Egrin and Kiya already conversing with a person seated on the fallen tree. Egrin’s sword was sheathed, and the Dom-shu woman had set aside her bow. Their ease relaxed Tol. Kiya’s instinct for danger was far keener than his own.

Egrin hailed him. The mention of Tol’s name seemed to surprise the half-elf woman, and she regarded him through narrowed eyes.

“Husband!” Kiya said. “Look who we’ve found! The ugly elf!”

It was indeed Tylocost, sitting on the old log, feeding the small, smoky fire from a bundle of twigs at his feet. He inclined his head in greeting.

The half-elf circled them, keeping clear of Tol, but staring at him quite markedly.

“What ails her?” Kiya asked.