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flank, thrown into prominence by bright sunlight, resembled notched axe-blades. The glacial ice lying between them was grubby from leftover ash that had been deposited by eruptions of Tarnian volcanos two decades earlier. A few pink and gold alpine wildflowers bloomed in crevices nearby. The summit rocks above showed patches of brilliant white, dusted by the first light snowfall of approaching autumn.
    Summer that year had been uncommonly warm, melting more snow than usual from the Dextral Range. Even Demon Seat, the loftiest peak on High Blenholme Island, had lost most of the shroud that ordinarily softened its grim contours. The unusual sight of those bare slopes, visible to the three royal brothers from Swan Lake, had been the inspiration for this adventure. Orrion had yielded to the others' urgings on a fatalistic impulse. It was a last resort. Why not chance it?
    He bowed his head in misery. 'Oh, Nyla,' he whispered, 'if only there were another way! Dearest friend of my childhood, everyone at court knew that I had chosen you for mybride. Even Father gave tacit consent - until that bastard, Somarus of Didion, murmured against the Sovereignty. And now, Nyla, our only hope lies in dark magic'
    Magic, that bane of the Wincantor family . . .
    Prince Heritor Orrion had a profound distrust of uncanny powers. His study of certain Didionite documents, reluctantly provided by his mother Queen Risalla when he insisted on knowing the truth about the fall of Holt Mallburn, had convinced him that his father Conrig had made use of illicit Beaconfolk sorcery to establish his Sovereignty, thus committing a terrible sin against the Zeth Codex. Beyond doubt Conrig Wincantor had schemed with Ullanoth of Moss to conquer Didion's capital city through foulest magic. He had also relied on the Conjure-Queen's moonstone sigils to win the Battle of Cala Bay, forcing Didion to become the vassal of Cathra.
    Over the years, the Lords of the Southern Shore had kept those shameful allegations of sorcery alive, just as they continued to stoke the fires of calumny hinting that Conrig himself was besmirched with windtalent. Now, with the latest Salka threat, Duke Feribor Blackhorse and his fellow conspirators openly speculated that the Sovereign was preparing to use Beaconfolk magic once again, to counter the monsters' massive invasion of northern Didion.
    But so what if he does? Orrion asked himself. Am I any better than my flawed sire? At least his sin might save our island from the Salka, whereas the deed I contemplate committing is motivated only by a selfish desire to escape a loveless marriage.
    The brothers had begun their melancholy journey from Cala Palace to Boarsden Castle in Didion, where the betrothal ceremony was to take place, over a tennight earlier, allowing ample time for a side trip to Swan Lake. The two royal princeswere each accompanied by six Heart Companions, young nobles who were close friends. Vra-Bramlow, the novice Brother of Zeth, had no retinue, as was fitting for one belonging to the austere Order.
    Prince Orrion was a keen salmon angler. (Sportfishing with an artificial lure was now all the rage, having been newly introduced from Tarn.) His brothers hoped that a few days on the beautiful body of water would lift Orrion's depressed spirits. The three princes and their entourage had been invited to stay at a rustic lodge owned by Count Swanwick, a trusted ally of the royal family. But the fish proved elusive and the diversion was turning out to be a failure.
    It was Vra-Bramlow who conceived the audacious scheme to resolve his brother Orrion's predicament once and for all. Before revealing his idea to the twins, he windspoke one of Castle Vanguard's young alchymists, who had been a fellow student of occult science at Zeth Abbey, to verify that an ascent of the currently near-snowless Demon Seat would be feasible. A Vanguard resident would know if anyone did, since the peak was part of that dukedom.
    Vra-Hundig reluctantly