“You are but one of a hundred domains, a hundred planes of existence. I have better things to attend to other than your grovelings. This had better not be frivolous.”

“I don’t think it is.”

“Speak and be quick.”

Zarel, in a hurried tone, told him of Garth One-eye and the fighting that seemed to follow in his wake.

The Walker was silent except for the crackling of energy which reverberated like a bell through the room so that Zarel wanted to cover his eyes but dared not.

“The reports are that he is dead, but I think not. I think he is still alive.”

“So search for him. Why bother me? Surely you don’t expect me to track down this insect.”

“No, my great lord. But I have a concern.”

“Speak it then, damn you.”

“There is something behind this man. I know not what, but it is there. For a brief instant I thought I saw him in the confusion of the riot, but then he wasn’t there and I rode on. If that is so, he has powers. I thought long on this and then the connection came. It came to someone else from long ago who had mastery of such a spell and you know of whom I speak.”

Zarel sensed a brief instant of hesitation on the part of the Walker.

“If that is so, then find him!”

“I thought, great lord, that…”

“Find him and kill him now. I have no time for this. I have other concerns beyond your miserable plane. I will be back for Festival and I expect this to be resolved.”

“My great lord…”

But the presence was already gone and Zarel sensed that somehow there was a great urgency to his departure, as if a struggle was taking place even as they spoke and that the Walker could not spare a second longer for what to him was a trivial concern.

Exhausted, Zarel sat down in the middle of the circle and opened his eyes, the only light in the room coming from the gold circle which circumscribed him. He had known but brief glimpses into the realms of his lord and master, the Walker, and knew it was, as were all places, a domain of wars and struggle against others of the highest powers. The glimpses were chilling in their terror and yet seductive in their power, for a fighter could, if he survived long enough, become, one day, a Walker. He could become capable of leaping beyond the myriad planes of existence. In such realms he could gather in mana undreamed of, the foundation of the power of all spells and artifacts. In such realms he could, in fact, become immortal and exist for countless aeons until he was at last cast down by another Walker who finally managed to steal his mana. There was only so much mana in the realm of planes, even though they were rumored to be uncountable. Therefore, a Walker did not care too much for emerging rivals.

Zarel sighed. It was the dream of immortality that was all so seductive. As a wielder of magics he had the ability to extend his own life span significantly, to a millennium or more. But each extension came with a price, and one did slowly age. Until finally the power to extend was nothing more than the insane act of senile old fools who were good for nothing more than sitting in dark shadows and drifting in a world of impotent dreams.

His most implacable foe, Kirlen of Brown, was already becoming such a person, terrified of death and equally terrified of the final lingering. He knew her dream was to destroy him, to become a Grand Master and thus gather enough power to try for immortality. The mere thought of her and her constant plotting aroused a desire yet again to find a means somehow to quietly kill her.

What might she do with this One-eye and what was his plan in all of this? For it was obvious that he must have a plan.

The One-eye was alive and had to be found. It was evident that his game was indeed dangerous to the existing order of things. And if the existing order of things was disturbed, then the Walker would be disturbed. If the Walker was sufficiently disturbed, a new Grand Master could always be found and Zarel realized with a cold certainty that he had to find One-eye before Kirlen got to him first.

“Enter.”

Garth One-eye walked calmly into the inner office of the Master of the House of Ingkara, Jimak Ravelth. The House Master looked up, his waspish angular face chiseled by the glare of a single lamp that flickered on the table behind which he sat. The table was strewn with shimmering objects and as Garth drew closer he saw that they were stacks of gold coins, emeralds, blood red rubies, opals the size of cats’ eyes, multifaceted diamonds that seemed to explode with light, and cunningly wrought artifacts of metals unknown to this plane of existence.

Jimak looked up at him and smiled, his bloodless lips pulling back so that his face looked like a skull.

“My toys,” Jimak said softly, motioning for Garth to come forward and admire them.

The gesture seemed friendly and yet, as Garth approached, he could sense a barrier go up, Jimak leaning forward slightly as if to fling his body over his possessions in order to shield them from the lascivious looks of others.

Garth scanned them, pausing for a moment on the artifacts, and then he shrugged his shoulders as if he was looking at nothing more than pathetic trinkets that a beggar was trying to sell in exchange for a few coppers.

“They’re of no concern to me,” Garth said evenly.

“That’s what some might say, even as they connive to rob me,” Jimak replied sharply.

“I’m interested in other things.”

“Such as?”

“Power and revenge.”

“And both can bring you gold.”

“No,” Garth said coldly, “the payment is in here,” and he pointed toward his heart with a clenched fist.

“Does it concern the eye, is that it?” Jimak asked, licking his bloodless lips with a bloodless tongue.

Garth lifted the black patch that covered his eye and, seized with a perverted curiosity, Jimak held the lamp up to look closely, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“It looks like it was gouged out, not just cut in a fight. Messy, very messy.” He licked his lips again.

Garth lowered the flap.

“Works well with women; they recoil at the sight of it,” Garth said coldly.

“Women. Who needs them when one has this?” said Jimak, scooping up a ruby and rubbing it lovingly with his clawlike hands.

“The wound has ached for five years, five years I have gone to sleep with the memory of the pain. For five years I have awaked at dawn, the empty socket filled with agony.”

“Who did it?”

Garth hesitated for a moment.

“Go on.”

“The Grand Master and Leonovit, the cousin of Kirlen, Master of Bolk.”

Jimak cackled softly.

“My, my, our vengeance does aim high.”

“It was several moons after Festival five years ago. Leonovit and I fought. He had taken my sister against her will. When I started to best him several of his groveling fighters jumped me from behind. I was taken to the Grand Master and charged with breaking the peace and as punishment my eye was taken, my satchel stripped, and I was driven out.”

“So now you’ve come back for revenge.”

“Something like that.”

“Why didn’t anyone remember you today? Naru has served the House of Bolk for decades.”

“Do you remember the number of first-rank fighters, who are hanin without House, whom you have destroyed or maimed in your time?”

Jimak chuckled softly.

“They are like noisome flies.”

“I’m forgotten, but I have not forgotten.”

“So why me?”

“Why not? I know you like these things.” Garth pointed at the treasure strewn across the table. “I can earn you more. I can earn you more in the arena, I can earn you more in commissions once Festival is done. And I can bring damage to a rival House. I’ve already done that for you today.”

“You betrayed Tulan and the House of Kestha.”