Phae swallowed and pressed her cheek against the Kishion’s shoulder. The hills began to rise and swell and soon they saw massive stone formations crowning the hills amidst the bristlecone pine and bur oak. The ridges were rugged country, impossible for a horse to cross. The sun began to set, turning the sky a fiery hue as it mingled amidst a bank of storm clouds. The wind swept through the lowland prairie, bringing the temperature down. In the distance came the rumble of thunder. The beauty of the land swelled inside Phae’s heart. She still did not want to leave Stonehollow, but she could not think of a way to avoid that fate. Perhaps a storm would force them to shelter amidst the trees or inside a cave?

The horse was weary from the long ride that day and carrying two riders. But it was a stubborn beast and it continued to plod ahead, determined to carry them to the brink of the country. Phae nestled against the Kishion’s back, drowsy with the swaying motion. She could feel the tension in his muscles, hear the heart beating inside him. He was a living creature. But he could not die.

“I hope you will remember me—when this is over,” she said, stifling a yawn. “If I saw you again, I would be…sad if you did not remember me.”

He was silent and the wind rustled the long valley grass. She swallowed, her eyes closing. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“The strange thing is that I feel I already know you. Somehow. I cannot explain it.”

Phae straightened. “We have never met, Kishion.”

“Then why are you so familiar to me?” he wondered aloud. He sighed. “I feel as if I should know you. As if I should recognize you. The locket. The music. Your hair. Something speaks to me from the past.” He sighed deeply. “There is the road.”

Phae saw it too and her heart turned into stone. It was closer than she had believed. They had followed the valley to the northeast, cutting across the abandoned farmlands to reach the mountains and finally the road. They left the long grass to the finely packed dirt road leading up into the mountains. The constant trampling of oxen hooves and wagon wheels had made it impossible for anything to grow on the road. Markers carved from stone appeared on the road ahead, designating the distance to Fowlrox. They would reach it long before midnight.

As the horse climbed into the hills toward the mountains, the shadows thickened as the sun went down. Looming boulders flanked the road, making it impossible to leave the trail by horseback. This was the easiest path to leave the valley. It had the gentlest slope for the oxen to pull the massive granite rocks quarried from the valley and transported beyond. Each clop of the hooves made Phae mourn her past. She had a sickening feeling that she would never return.

Ahead, Phae saw the first tunnel. It was a square hole ponderously carved amidst an enormous boulder the size of a large cottage. The tunnel hole was wide and tall enough for a single wagon to ride through. It was also very deep, but she could see the dim light coming from the far end. The tunnel had been carved from living rock centuries before. She knew there were two more like it farther ahead. She had never passed its boundaries before.

Trees gathered thick around the edges of the tunnel boulder. Smaller fragments of broken rock were littered nearby. Phae was starting to drowse again when the Kishion stiffened in the saddle, jerking the reins so hard, it startled her. Shapes emerged from the darkness of the tunnel. Two men approached them. One was tall and broad-shouldered and walked with a slight limp. The other was shorter and walked to keep pace with the taller man. As they emerged from the tunnel facing them, Phae gasped. One was dressed like a Rike of Seithrall, though he was Vaettir.

It was Prince Aran.

The other man was taller, wearing a stained tunic and cloak and held a strange metal shape in his hand. Not a sword, but a device of some kind. He had reddish hair, cinder-colored, just like hers. His beard and temples were streaked with gray. His eyes were intense and stared at the Kishion deliberately. Phae sensed something about him, something familiar. Her heart started to hammer in her chest. He looked familiar, like a reflection in a dream.

The Kishion stared. “I killed you,” he said in a low voice, as if he could not believe his senses.

There was the hint of a smile amidst the bearded man’s face. “And I wanted you to think that, Kishion,” came the reply. “I’ve come for my daughter.”

“I once observed the Arch-Rike of Kenatos calm a quarrel between two very strong-willed merchants in the city. He invited both to a feast he had prepared for some prominent individuals. He told me this with a sly voice: ‘If you wish to play peacemaker, seat adversaries next to each other where they must begin by being civil.’ True it is, we only hate those whom we do not know.”