Quickly he stepped to the center of the room and gathered his cloak around him. Then, murmuring the words of the spell Charissa had taught him, he made the proper pass in the air before him with an outstretched arm—and disappeared.

LATER—much later—Ian drew rein in a deeply wooded area in the hills north of Rhemuth. He listened for a long, silent minute, then urged his horse forward at a walk, letting the animal pick its own footing in the dark, moonless night. Snow was falling gently now, and Ian pulled his hooded cloak more closely around himself as he rode through the darkness.

At length, he found himself passing beside a sheer cliff-face, naked rock to his right and higher than the eye could see. He had ridden for perhaps half a mile when he was suddenly challenged by a gruff voice.

“Who goes there?”

“Ian of Eastmarch. I’ve come to see Her Grace.”

Off to the left, someone struck a spark, and then a torch flared in the darkness. The man with the torch held it aloft and walked slowly toward Ian. Beyond him, just visible at the edges of the circle of torchlight, Ian could see at least half a dozen additional men. When the man with the torch had almost reached Ian, another man stepped out of the blackness directly ahead of Ian and took hold of his horse’s bridle.

“Sorry, m’lord,” he said roughly. “We weren’t expecting you tonight.”

Ian flung back his hood and dismounted, watched as the speaker handed his horse’s reins to another man, who led the animal away to hidden stables. Ian began stripping off his gloves and looked around.

“Is your lady still about?”

“Aye, m’lord,” the guard captain replied, touching a portion of the rock wall beside him. “I can’t say whether she’s expecting you, though.”

A portion of the wall withdrew to disclose a passageway into the heart of the cliff, and Ian stepped through, followed by the captain and several guards.

“Oh, she’s expecting me,” he said with a sly smile that was lost to the guards in the darkness of the passage. He waited until his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, then headed confidently down the long corridor, toward more distant torchlight.

As Ian walked, he slapped the leather riding gloves gently against the palm of his other hand. His boot-heels echoed hollowly on the marble-paved passageway, and the fine steel of his scabbard gave off muffled pings whenever it glanced off against his boots, slightly muted by the heavy cloak.