'No,' Bellurdan rumbled. 'They would not do such a thing. Rather, they seek to prevent someone else releasing it. Yes, that is more likely. It is the truth of things. Now, Tattersail, our conversation is done.'

'I can't go back,' the sorceress said. 'I must go on. Please, don't stop me.'

'We are to return to Pale,' Bellurdan said stubbornly. 'Your concern has been satisfied. Permit me to take you back so that I may continue seeking the proper burial place for Nightchill.'

There was no choice left in Tattersail's mind, but there had to be a way out. The conversation had bought her time, time to recover from the ordeal of travelling by Warren. Bellurdan's words returned to her: if she accessed her Thyr Warren now she would be consumed. Incinerated by the reactive influence of the T'lan Imass. Her eyes fell on the burlap sack beside the Thelomen and saw from it a faint gleam of sorcery. A spell. My own spell. She recalled now: a gesture of compassion, a spell of... preservation. Is this my way out? Hood's Breath, is it even possible? She thought of Hairlock, the journey from the dying body to a lifeless ... vessel. Shedenul, have mercy on us ...

The sorceress stepped back and opened her Warren. High Thyr magic blazed around her. She saw Bellurdan stagger back then steady himself. He screamed something, but she could not hear him. Then he charged at her.

She regretted the Thelomen's fatal courage as the fire blackened the world around her, even as she opened her arms and embraced him.

Lorn strode to Tool's side. The T'lan Imass faced west, and a tension swirled about him that she could almost see.

'What is it?' she asked, her eyes on the white fountain of fire rising above the horizon. 'I've never seen anything like that.'

'Nor I,' Tool replied. 'It is within the barrier I have cast around us.'

'But that's impossible,' the Adjunct snapped.

'Yes, impossible to last this long. Its source should have been consumed almost instantly. Yet...' The T'lan Imass fell silent.

There was no need for Tool to finish his sentence. The pillar of fire still raged in the night sky as it had for the past hour. The stars swam in the inky darkness around it, magic swirling in a frenzy as if from a bottomless well. On the wind was a smell that left Lorn slightly nauseous. 'Do you recognize the Warren, Tool?'

'Warrens, Adjunct. Tellann, Thyr, Denul, D'riss, Tennes, Thelomen Toblakai, Starvald Demelain ...'

'Starvald Demelain, what in Hood's Name is that?'

'Elder.'

'I thought there were but three Elder Warrens, and that's not one of them.'

'Three? No, there were many, Adjunct, all born of one. Starvald Demelain.'

Lorn wrapped her cloak tighter about herself, eyes on the column of fire. 'Who could manage such a conjuring?'