a good evening to you, Zenith,” the bridge said in her deep, melodious voice. No-one ever understood the bridge, what she truly was, or what magic had created her. She simply existed, and her sole purpose in her existence was to guard all entrances into Sigholt. All visitors, whether by foot, hoof or air, were challenged by the bridge as to whether they were true or not.
No-one ever knew what she really meant by that, either.
But the bridge generally kept Sigholt safe – apart from the one notable exception when the infant Drago had tricked her into allowing Gorgrael access to Sigholt – and she was good company for nights when sleep refused to come.
“Do you wish to pass an hour or so with me, Zenith?” the bridge asked hopefully. Even so fey a creation as the bridge still liked to gossip whenever the opportunity presented itself.
“No, bridge. I am sorry. Tonight I must go to Spiredore. Can you lead me there?”
“Of course. Where are you going?”
“Carlon.”
“Ah,” the bridge sighed. “I have heard many wondrous tales about Carlon. But wait … there. Spiredore awaits you.”
Zenith looked across the bridge. Normally it led to the roadway that ran the length of HoldHard Pass, but now the other side of the bridge connected into a misty blue tunnel at the end of which Zenith could see the stairway of Spiredore.
“I thank you, friend bridge,” she said, and stepped across.
If the bridge was unknown magic, then Spiredore was a hundred times the puzzlement and even more the magic. The tower that stood on the opposite shoreline of Grail Lake to Carlon belonged to Azhure, although it was as ancient, some whispered, as Grail Lake itself. Its interior was a maze of seemingly disconnected stairwells and corridors, but if one knew how to use Spiredore’s magic, those stairwells and corridors could take you just about anywhere you wished. Azhure had taught all her children – save Drago, of course – how to use the tower, and how particularly to enter it via the bridge at Sigholt.
Now Zenith stepped off the bridge and into the short corridor of blue mist that led to the interior of Spiredore. As powerful and knowledgeable an Enchanter as she was, all Zenith understood of this process was that somehow the bridge had called across the scores of leagues separating her from Spiredore, and the tower itself had reached out and formed this connection.
From the misty corridor Zenith entered Spiredore at one of its myriad balconies. Glancing quickly up and down, she saw a bizarre outcropping of disconnected balconies and stairs – and even some ladders – that lined the circular interior of the tower. None of them appeared to go anywhere.
“Spiredore,” she said firmly, “I wish to go to Carlon.”
And she walked to the nearest stairwell and stepped down.
Azhure had always impressed on her two winged daughters that they must never fly in Spiredore, as it was so strangely magical they might easily become disorientated and crash into a balcony, or even the floor of the tower. Zenith walked until she felt her calves begin to ache and then, just as she paused to rub them, she saw that around the next curve of the stairs was a flat floor.
Zenith smiled to herself. It was ever so in Spiredore. Just when you thought you could go no further, Spiredore delivered you to your destination.
Once on the floor Zenith saw a door before her, and through that door … through the door was the dawning air about Grail Lake, the harsh cries of the lake birds filling the air as they rose to meet the sun.
“I thank you, Spiredore,” she said as she passed through, closing the door gently behind her.
Outside the tower looked plain, even though it imposed with its height. Completely windowless, it climbed some one hundred paces into the crimson sky – the sun ascending almost directly behind it.
Zenith stood motionless for long minutes, drinking in the view of the tower, the lake, the stunning city rising on the far shore.
“How wrong I have been to so secrete myself in Sigholt,” she whispered, then sprang into the air with a glad cry, her arms wide as if to embrace the entire world.
Leagh was sitting at her mirror-table, brushing the tangles from her hair and trying to stop yawning.
There was a rush at the window, as if it had been struck by a great gust of air, and then a small pale fist was tapping impatiently at the panes of glass.
“Leagh!” a muffled voice called, “Leagh! Let me in!”
Leagh sat and stared for long minutes, unable to believe what she saw, before she finally roused herself enough to walk over and open the windows.
Zenith almost fell through, enveloping her friend in a great hug.
“Leagh! Leagh! You and Askam are to come to Sigholt – can you believe it?” Leagh just stared at her.
“And Zared is to be there, too! Come, sleepy-eyes, what shall you wear?”
Zenith did not think it wrong to give Leagh a day of hope and excitement. And it was true. After at least two years, Leagh would finally see Zared again.
Zared sat on his chair on the slightly raised dais in his reception gallery, trying to hold his temper. Generally he enjoyed holding open court, but this Thursday afternoon had brought such evil news he knew there would be little delight left in the day.
Ranged before him were six men, four peasants from his southern border with the West, and – for the gods’ sakes – Jannymire Goldman, the Master of the Carlonese Guilds himself, and one of his merchant cronies, Bransom Heavorand. The tidings they had brought would sour anyone’s day, Zared thought, let alone mine.
“A third … a third!” he muttered yet again. Obviously the guilds, as the merchants, would be crippled by the tax, but these peasants … gods! They’d had a third of their year’s grain confiscated!
“Gustus!” Zared called, and his captain of the guard stepped forward. “See that these peasants receive recompense from my treasury for their losses.”
Gustus nodded, and moved off. The peasants effused thanks to their Prince, then scurried after the captain.
Zared eyed Goldman thoughtfully. As Master of the Carlonese Guilds, Goldman was one of the most powerful non-noble men in Tencendor. He controlled not only great wealth, but was the voice of the traders, craftsmen and businessmen of Carlon and, by default, most of Tencendor. Why come north himself? And why complain to Zared? Surely his complaints would be more effective directed at Caelum?
“Askam will grow rich at your expense, good sirs,” Zared remarked.
“As yours,” murmured Heavorand.
Yes, as mine, Zared thought, his dark face remaining carefully neutral. Shall I now risk sending my goods to the southern markets via the Andeis Sea? But even pirates would not risk those treacherous waters, and Zared knew he’d lose considerably more than a third of his goods if they went
