Prologue


Gareth Soren crept through the forest, his tawny eyes darting this way and that. Beams of moonlight glinted off his drawn dagger, which he gripped so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He slipped from shadow to shadow, his dark cloak blending seamlessly with the night. A twig snapped under his foot and he froze, straining his ears for sounds of pursuit. His heart hammered against his chest loud enough to be heard leagues away; blood pounded in his ears like a drum. After what seemed an eternity, he had heard no sounds of men crashing through the brush behind him so he moved on, doubling his efforts to be silent. Slowly, he became aware that a veil of shadow was enveloping the woods. He glanced up, eyeing the portentous clouds that threatened to obscure the moon with a satisfied smile on his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Soon, he came to the edge of the forest, when he finally reached open ground he stopped, panting for air as if he had been running for miles instead of creeping quietly through the trees. But all sense of weariness vanished as the air in front of him shimmered, then coalesced into the form of a man. Gareth immediately dropped to his knees, clapping a fist to his heart. "Lord Evere," he said reverently. "This is an unexpected honor." At a gesture from the taller man, he slowly rose to his feet, his fist still pressed against his chest, and his eyes locking with Evere's, waiting for instructions.

"I trust that you escaped without notice?" Rathan Evere asked coldly. His eyes were the red of blood and intense, boring into Gareth's mind like hot augers. Three shapes like stretched hexagons stood out dark on Rathan's face; one was placed in the center of his forehead, while the other two were set far back along his cheekbones, giving him an air of power and command. A jet-black mantle was hung over his broad shoulders and was clasped at his throat by a large gem, its color unidentifiable in the night, and the armor strapped across his chest was dark as a raven's feather. He fingered the silver ring on his left hand absentmindedly. It was the symbol of the Caeryn Throne; a two-headed serpent wound around his finger and met with a dark green crystal in its fangs.

"Yes, my lord," Gareth replied, shrinking away from his lord's gaze and lowering his voice to barely above a whisper as if the woods were full of listening ears cloaked in darkness. Even though he was sure that no one had followed him, his eyes darted to the edge of the woods and back anyway, peering into the shadows at the eaves of the forest. Gareth glanced back up at the dark man looming over him, and wilted visibly under the disgusted stare directed at him. His shoulders sagged as if under a great weight, and he quickly lowered his eyes to the ground, murmuring an apology.

After a moment, Rathan Evere spoke. "How many soldier were there in the camp?" he asked. Gareth rapidly straightened up and began rattling off numbers and descriptions. All the while, Rathan was fingering his silver ring idly, only listening with half his mind. A small smile played at the edge of his lips, cold, and devoid of mirth. Gareth's voice faltered when he noticed that Evere was not paying complete attention, but he continued anyway.

"Three hundred soldiers will not be a problem for you, my lord. It seems that luck is with us, there is not a single Dedicated in the camp." At that, Rathan's face twisted in a silent snarl, his eyes narrowing in hatred and anger. Gareth licked his lips nervously and stared at the ground, mentally cursing himself for being so careless with his tongue. If Evere guessed what waited for him in the camp...Gareth shuddered. He wouldn't follow that train of thought any further than he had to.

But Rathan didn't seem to have read that deeply into Gareth's mistake. "The Dedicated are cowards," he growled. "They think that they can do what they wish since they wear the symbol of the Ketore Empire on their armor, but separate them from their precious lords and ladies and they are no more than children." He spat into the night. "No one can stand against me and survive. Those Dedicated scum will know the bitter taste of their defeat before long." He laughed harshly.

"Of course, my lord," Gareth replied swiftly. "I didn't mean any disrespect. I only..." He quickly closed his mouth as Rathan raised his hand and lowered his eyes to the ground.

After a moment, he glanced up at the dark man, and frowned. Rathan stood as still as though he was carved out of stone, his left hand still raised for silence; his right hand firmly gripped a small stone so dark that it seemed to absorb the little light around it rather than reflect it. His eyes were tightly squeezed together, as if to shut out everything of the world. His tightened countenance belied any idea that he slept; his brow was pinched in concentration, and beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. Gareth's eyes flitted to the eaves of the forest again, searching for any hidden watchers. "My...my lord?" he stuttered. When Rathan did not reply, he slowly reached his hand out and touched the taller man's shoulder. Instantly, Rathan's left hand sped out like an adder, gripping Gareth's forearm with such strength that the startled man's fingers drooped listlessly as they lost feeling. Gareth stifled a cry and tried to pull away, but it was like trying to pull his arm out of a stone block. Rathan's fingers dug into his flesh, and blood began dripping to the dusty ground. Gareth gritted his teeth and opened his mouth to shout out, but before the words passed his lips, Rathan's eyes opened. Gareth choked on his words, and stammered, "My lord, is everything..."

"It is done," Rathan replied calmly; too calmly in Gareth's mind, for what had occurred. He released his grip on Gareth's arm, and turned around to face the ridge of hills behind them. Gareth fell to his knees, clutching at his arm. He, too, looked over at the hills, but what he saw made him gasp in spite of himself. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers were pouring over the hills in front of him. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the throbbing pains in his arm as he fumbled for the knife at his waist, but a sharp "Be still!" stopped him as surely as if Rathan had bellowed the command in his ear and shaken a gauntleted fist under his nose. Still, he trembled as the army drew nearer. Only a few more hills, and he would surely be trampled to death. As the advancing hordes topped the last hill, he shut his eyes, awaiting the merciless boots to crush his body into the ground.

After a moment, Gareth noticed that everything around him was silent except for a lone owl hooting solemnly in the woods. He squinted his eyes open, and then gaped in wide-eyed wonder at what he saw. All the hills for as far as he could see were black with soldiers. Stray beams of moonlight occasionally pierced through the clouds to flash off spearheads and helms. But what really caught his wonder was that the front line of the army had halted only yards in front of Rathan, their heads bowed slightly, and their fists pressed firmly against their breastplates. A small breeze stirred the dust at Gareth's feet, and made the red plumes on the soldier's helmets sway. Gareth blinked in surprise; he hadn't noticed their symbols until now. His eyes slid over the vast blanket of men, taking in the multitude of men who stood at attention, and those few that didn't have their fists on their hearts held banners proudly displaying the mark of the Caeryn Throne; a twin-headed serpent on a field of red. He inched over to Rathan's side, trying unsuccessfully to appear calm.

"Lord Evere," he said quietly. "If I may ask, why did you send for so many men? Surely you don't deem them all necessary? You, of all people, do not need an army to destroy a mere three hundred rebels."

The black-garbed man glanced over at Gareth with a look of cool tolerance and...amusement.? Gareth took an involuntary step back from his lord's gaze. He opened his mouth to apologize, but quickly snapped it shut as Rathan turned back to the sea of men in front of them.

"Not a shred of their camp is to be left!" he cried; his voice bounced and echoed off the hills. "Burn the bodies, the tents, the horses, everything! You are the Seinau, the Chosen Ones of the Caeryn Throne. You will continue to fight to your last drop of blood, to the last shard of your blade, to the last left alive. Now go and destroy!" He ended in a shout and with a raised fist. Gareth stepped back for a moment at the light in his lord's eyes; flames seemed about to burst from the sockets, yet his voice held the chill of steel being bared.

In an eerie silence, the soldiers leapt forward, swerving from their path to the woods only to sway around Rathan and Gareth,; the latter as frightened as the former calm. After a few moments, the pounding of metal boots was reduced to a low clamor as the last of the army disappeared into the trees. Gareth exhaled loudly as he realized that he had been holding his breath, and he shakily raised a hand to wipe a few beads of sweat off his forehead. He turned to Rathan, who was staring off into the woods, an odd half-smile on his lips as he twirled his silver ring of office carelessly between his fingers. Gareth opened his mouth, and then shut it again as if reconsidering what he was going to say. He took a long, shuddering breath, then began. "Lord Evere, why..."

"My reasons are my own," Rathan broke in, his voice quiet, but it cut Gareth off like a knife. "If I wish you to know them, then I will tell. Do you understand?" Rathan turned away from the shadows of the woods and looked at Gareth in a way that made him shiver.

A chill wind blew across the grounds, catching the dust into miniature whirlwinds. Curiosity spiked Gareth's sudden fear, and he studied Rathan's expression, despite his growing apprehension. He saw the fire flickering and dancing on the surface, and dismissed it as a sign of his lord's temper. He felt the ice that crackled and swam beneath the fa