“It seems to me,” the priest said very delicately, “the king had something to do with that.”

The castellan laughed. It was a creaky, rusty sound. “Your spies figure that out, Father?”

The priest sniffed in disapproval. “You would accuse me of—”

“I accuse you of nothing the king didn’t know about.”

The priest frowned.

The castellan laughed again, shaking his head. “Come, come, Father. It is not too difficult to figure out that the disappearances and sudden deaths of potential successors were in fact assassinations. The old man didn’t wish his supremacy challenged while he lived.”

The priest scowled. “I fear much precious blood will be spilled as a result of his—his misguided attempts to safeguard his throne.”

“Much blood already has been.”

The two men walked on in silence for a time before resuming their conversation.

“Who do you think will—?” the priest began.

“Who can say? But mark my words: whoever succeeds the king must conquer all the other clans to show he is strongest.”

“War,” the priest murmured.

“War,” the castellan agreed. “Between the clans. That is the legacy the king leaves us.”

The priest curved his fingers into the sign of the crescent moon. “May Aeryc watch over us.”

The castellan shook his head. “I fear it is Salvistar who watches over us now.”

His voice dropped low, and Karigan had to listen closely. “It’s the old fool’s fault. He could have named an heir, or found a way to produce some child and call it his. It is he who always played the clan chiefs against one another like it was some game, some game of Intrigue. He enjoyed it, the bloody bastard. He enjoyed it.” The castellan paused and rubbed his chin. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this was what he wanted, his final jest on the Sacor Clans.”

“Whoever wins this war,” the priest said, “may he unite all of Sacoridia once again. May he bring peace.”

Karigan’s mind spun. Was she dreaming, or had she just witnessed the roots of the Clan Wars? The seagull was the coat of arms for Clan Sealender, and upon the bier must have been King Agates Sealender, the last of his line, on his way to be prepared for the gods. The clan chief who waged war and won the right to succeed him was King Smidhe Hillander. As the castellan and priest had hoped, he united the clans and brought about the two hundred years of peace and prosperity that Sacoridia still enjoyed.

Two hundred years. What she had just seen was two hundred years ago . . .

And the hoofbeats came again. The floor slid beneath her feet and she was swept into a slipstream of light and dark, the flames of torches hurtling by her in ribbons of light, casting odd shapes of shadow across stone walls, only to pitch her into the dark again. And then into the light.

People emerged and vanished, leaving but brief impressions. Their speech lagged behind in slurred echoes, like ghost voices.

The traveling, or whatever it was, halted jarringly. Karigan sprawled across the floor from sheer momentum. She clambered to her feet shaking her head. As far as she could tell, this was the same corridor she had been in with the castellan and the priest. She hadn’t moved—physically.

Torches crackled in sconces, smoke spiraling upward to the soot-stained ceiling. Brightly woven tapestries and shields hung on the walls, their proud devices glinting in the dancing light. Here Karigan saw the Sea Rose and the Black Bear, the Peregrine and the Evergreen. Devices not used in hundreds of years by companies that no longer existed.

How far have I come? she wondered. How far in time . . .

Soldiers, mostly in silver and black, milled about the corridor, but there were other uniforms with other devices making a colorful mix. Their conversations clam ored in her ears. The light, the color, and the noise all buffeted her.

As before, no one was aware of her, but voices hushed and eyes glanced in her direction. The soldiers parted before her.

Two people brushed by. One was a tall woman in half armor with a green cloak thrown over her shoulder. She wore a cross sash of blue and green plaid, and a saber girded to her hip. A horn swung at her side. As she passed, Karigan caught the gleam of a winged horse brooch. Her own brooch hummed, filled her head. A thrill sang through her nerves.

Karigan had seen the plaid before, and the saber. The plaid had been draped across the remains of the First Rider, Lil Ambrioth, down in the tombs beneath the castle. The sword Karigan had held in her own hands.

The man who strode beside the First Rider had a striking mane of gray hair and a bristling beard. He, too, was armored and girded with a greatsword. He wore the jeweled gold crown Karigan had just seen resting on the body of Agates Sealender. The soldiers murmured and dropped to their knees as the man swept past them.

He could be none other than King Jonaeus, the first high king of Sacoridia. He had been crowned a thousand years ago near the end of the Long War.

Karigan had traveled far. Very far.

Journal of Hadriax el Fex

Alessandros’ use of his art to destroy clan villages has drawn the Elt out of their stronghold. In the night, emissaries came to us, resplendent in a milky armor that seemed to absorb the moonlight. They demanded we leave these shores immediately, and not return.

I saw in Alessandros’ eyes the reawakening of his longing as he gazed at them. He once told me he believed they embodied etherea, not just possessed the art to draw upon it. He ordered them detained, except for one he sent back as a messenger to their queen, to tell her that she must kneel to the Empire, or suffer war. General Spurloche and I were alarmed by this bold statement, but agreed later that it must be a bluff. Who knows what these Elt are capable of? The emissaries we hold as hostages.